


In the Having

by AgentStannerShipper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Canonical Character Death, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Domesticity, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Found Family, Healthy Communication, Human Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Minor Donna Hanscum/Jody Mills, Minor Kaia Nieves/Claire Novak, References to Depression, also references to canonical thoughts of suicide, basically dean winchesters mental health is not great, but hes working on it, fair bit of fluff here too, finale? what finale, get in losers were rescuing cas from the empty, human cas is still totally a bamf, i have chosen to ignore parts of 15x19 and all of 15x20, implied Amara/Mary Winchester, no beta we die like men, they said were replacing cas with a dog and i said bet, which is a tag i never expected to use but here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:40:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28271775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: Chuck is still on his knees. It would almost be pitiable, how pathetic he looks, but Dean is beyond giving a crap. The devastation on his face turns to hope at Dean’s approaching footfalls, maybe hoping that they won’t just leave him here, or maybe that Dean’s changed his mind about killing him. Dean doesn’t…the thought that he’s a lover, not a fighter, is still rattling in his chest, unable to settle right when it’s meant sincerely, but it’s what Cas believed. It’s what Cas believed so totally, so wholly, that Dean can’t bring himself to contradict it. Not when the anger has melted away into despair.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, background Sam Winchester/Eileen Leahy - Relationship
Comments: 39
Kudos: 201





	In the Having

**Author's Note:**

> Despite how long I've been in the Supernatural fandom, I haven't actually written for it before now (well, except for one extremely terrible longfic when I was first getting into fanfiction and a smattering of very short one-shots). This was supposed to be a little fix-it fic. Then it kept growing. I'm sure other people have used this title, this premise, etc. for different fics and headcanons in the wake of the trashfest that was the finale, but I've been very judicious not to read them, so hopefully this doesn't feel copy-and-paste. I'm sure there's plot points I forgot to wrap up, or things that I could have done differently, but I'm pretty happy with how it stands, and I hope people like it too. Let me know if I've missed any tags that people think are important, and I'll make sure to add them.
> 
> Big thanks to the Kingsfam for cheerleading me through this one! I hope it makes you happy. :)

Sam and Jack are almost to the car when Dean turns back. It’s not so much a conscious decision as the fact that one moment, his feet are pointed towards Baby, towards the road away from this middle-of-nowhere they’ve landed themselves in, and the next moment they’re faltering, and Dean is turning towards the lake again. He doesn’t look at Sam, who’s shepherding Jack into the car like the helicopter parent he loves to be, or the kid himself, who understandably seems a little dazed. He strides back, fast enough to not lose his nerve, because it’s like everything inside him has been locked up ever since-

Well. Ever since. And he’s gotta know.

Chuck is still on his knees. It would almost be pitiable, how pathetic he looks, but Dean is beyond giving a crap. The devastation on his face turns to hope at Dean’s approaching footfalls, maybe hoping that they won’t just leave him here, or maybe that Dean’s changed his mind about killing him. Dean doesn’t…the thought that he’s a lover, not a fighter, is still rattling in his chest, unable to settle right when it’s meant sincerely, but it’s what Cas believed. It’s what Cas believed so totally, so wholly, that Dean can’t bring himself to contradict it. Not when the anger has melted away into despair.

Instead, he stops a few feet away, looking down. It feels powerful, or it should, but there’s still that hollow in Dean’s chest, and it’s an empty sort of power. He could hurt Chuck, could make him beg, grovel in the dirt, but there’s no satisfaction in that. They’re free. Whatever scraps of attention Chuck gets now, it’s more than he deserves, and Dean is done torturing. He’s done.

“Why did you bring him back?” is what he asks. It’s quiet. Chuck can hear him, he knows, and his voice is rough like he’s swallowed glass, but he gets the words out soft enough that Sam, standing back by the car, watching him, won’t be able to hear it. “If he really was so…so ‘fuck you’ to your shitty story this whole time, why did you keep bringing him back?”

Chuck’s face slips. Disappointment, sharp and edged. He looks like he wants to tell Dean to go screw himself – probably he does – but Chuck is a writer, shitty or not, and if there’s one thing a writer likes to do, it’s to talk about the story. He can’t seem to help himself.

Still, the words are acerbic, like they’re almost laughable, but not funny. “The first time…the first time it was cute. You were all so…unexpected. And you’d never had an angel on your shoulder before, not like this. I thought it might be exciting. Something new.” The bitterness melts, just a little. Just enough that some twisted fondness manages to seep through. “And then you broke the story. All three of you. And you gave a hell of an ending, Sam’s sacrifice and all. And I thought…I could work with this. Turn it into something even more epic. And the literary parallels…your friend becoming your enemy, trying to become _me?_ ” Chuck gives a wry smile. “I couldn’t resist.”

“And then what?”

The pleasure hardens again, and Chuck glares. “And it worked. For a while. Until something…got through to him. Until he tried to put it all back, tried to _ruin_ everything again. And I couldn’t let that happen.”

“So you killed him.” Dean wants to snarl, thinks his lip might even curl a little, but his voice is flat. Condemning. Cas walking into that lake was one of the worst moments of his life. Now, he’s not sure it ranks. There’s been so much bad.

“No.” Chuck is actually snarling, but on his knees it looks more like a wounded dog than a real threat. “No, he did that. I just…gave my story a push. Kept the Leviathans in it. And I let him stay too, just because, if nothing else, it was nice to see him hurting.” Dean flinches, but Chuck keeps going. “I won’t deny he made an interesting sideplot, but the _only_ reason he was worth keeping around was because he deserved to feel it for screwing up. Aside from you and Sam, _that_ was something satisfying. A proper punishment.”

“So you, what, kept bringing him back to punish him?” Hadn’t Cas said as much once?

Chuck levels a dirty look at the ground. “Everything up until that kid of yours, sure. I was going to let him lie, honestly. He’d served his purpose. Played out.” He makes the words sound dirty, like they’re beneath him to even utter. “But no. Even then, Castiel kept screwing up the narrative.” The laugh he lets out is…it’s really not funny. It’s darker than a scoff, but Dean doesn’t have a better word for it. “I put him on the path so many times, just like the rest of you,” Chuck says. “And he’d take two steps down it like the soldier he was supposed to be. And then he’d look back.” Chuck raises his gaze back to Dean’s, and even without his powers, it hits something deep in Dean’s chest, that instinct that has his hackles rising, ready to run. “He’d look back at you,” Chuck spits, “and that _stupid, broken angel_ would make a new choice. And I would have to write around him every damned time. So no, _Dean._ I didn’t make him like that. That was all _you_.”

Dean recoils. He actually stumbles the three steps back, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Sam tense, ready to spring. He puts out a hand, half to steady himself and half to still his brother. It does both, and he closes his eyes and takes a breath. When he turns towards Baby again, he doesn’t give Chuck a backwards glance. Maybe Dean Winchester isn’t a killer, isn’t the monster he’s been written as his whole life. But whether Chuck dies here, or if he manages to get picked up somewhere along the road, or whatever else happens now, that’s not Dean’s concern. This is where that story ends.

The car is silent as they pull out onto the road. Or, nearly silent, because Baby is an old girl now and she rattles as much as she purrs, and Dean himself is getting old enough to admit that. But the three of them are silent: Dean with both hands tight on the wheel in a way he only does when he needs something to hold on to, Sam craning his neck every few second like he’s trying to be sneaky about the glances he keeps throwing to the backseat, and Jack. Dean checks the rearview mirror instead, but the angle’s wrong to get more than glimpses. A snatch of the kid’s cheekbone, a displaced lock of his hair. Dean thinks he’s looking at the floorboard, but he can’t really tell, and he can’t bring himself to really look back. Jack is…everything, now. The big G. The big J? Dean…he’s trying real hard not to think about it, because the moment he starts to, his jaw locks up so hard he can almost hear the click over the sound of the one question he needs…the one question he’s desperate to ask. The question he can’t ask, because he’s so damn terrified of the answer.

Sam is the one who breaks the silence, clearing his throat and twisting a little in his seat. “So. Jack. How’re you feeling?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away, and when he does, his voice is slow. It usually is; the kid has a way of being so deliberate with his speech sometimes, and Dean tries hard not to think of Cas and “I don’t get words wrong.” He swallows that lump and keeps his eyes – glassing, exhausted, not wet – on the road.

“I…don’t know,” Jack says. “I feel…everything. The whole world…it’s like it’s in me. Or…I’m in it.” When Dean caves and sneaks a proper look, Jack is staring at his hands, turning them over in his lap, fingers splayed. He looks up, and Dean fights the urge to jolt his eyes away. Jack’s are intense, but in a way that seems almost distant.

“And…Amara?” Sam asks.

Jack turns to him, and Dean can breathe again. He tightens his hands on the wheel and puts his eyes back on the road, where it’s safe. “She’s in here too,” Jack says. His breath shakes a little. “I don’t…I didn’t want this.”

Dean can’t help the snort, because isn’t that the Winchester curse? He doesn’t check to see if Sam is giving him a dirty look for it. After a moment, Sam says, “So, you’re God now, I guess. Can you…I mean, you can fix everything, right? Put it back the way it was?”

“I don’t know.” Jack sounds frustrated. “I don’t…I don’t _know_.” He takes a deep breath; Dean can hear it, a slow inhale, a soft exhale. His voice gentles again. “I will. If I can. There’s…there’s a lot that needs to be put right. Not just Earth. Heaven, hell, the Empty. It all needs to be set right again, and I don’t know if I can do it on my own.”

“Well, you won’t be on your own,” Sam says. He’s so earnest too, the big moose. “You have us.”

Jack says what Dean’s thinking. “No, I won’t. This…it’s bigger than you now. Someone has to unravel the rest of the story. Get rid of the narrative. Set it up so it all runs smoothly without one. And that’ll take me, and Amara, and Death, and the Empty. All the big players now.” He seems to settle. “It shouldn’t just be me. Real balance…it should be spread. And then, maybe…”

He meets Dean’s eyes in the rearview, and Dean gets stuck again, but Jack is the one who looks away. “Maybe,” he says, very softly, “then I can come back home.”

“Of course,” Sam says when Dean can’t. “You’re always welcome with us. We’re family.”

“What he said,” Dean manages. Even that comes out…not quite broken. But probably not whole.

Jack nods. He doesn’t quite smile, but there is a warmness to his eyes. “I will fix it,” he says, and that’s a promise. “As soon as I can, I’ll put everything right again.”

Dean doesn’t need to look to see that the backseat is empty. He knows what wings sound like by now. Jack can probably be anywhere now just by thinking about it. He doesn’t need to fly. But he was still part angel once.

They make it about two minutes before Sam starts, “Dean-“

“Just let me drive,” Dean says. He knows his brother, and anything Sam might be about to say, he can’t hear.

They make it to the bunker without another word between them. Dean doesn’t touch the radio, and Sam doesn’t dare.

***

Dean is asleep when Sam half-crashes into his room, but for once he really doesn’t mind being woken. He’d stared at the ceiling for a long time when they got back, and when he had managed to get some shuteye, his dreams had been one long, unfunny string of pies in the face and weird vamp-mimes and rebar through the chest. It still hurts a little, a deep ache inside him, caught somewhere between that empty hole of the other side of the mattress, the one he instinctively curls away from, and the thought that maybe this is it. No more hunting. No more blaze of glory. Just…a life. Sam’s face is lit by the glow of his phone, and his eyes are that huge, desperate disbelief of a man in love. His mouth opens, and then closes, and he gestures with the phone helplessly.

“Go get her,” Dean says. His voice is wrecked with sleep, but it’s still coherent enough for this.

Sam books it, and Dean turns over onto his back again. He hesitates, and then reaches for his own phone. It’s lit up with notifications – Donna and Jody and Garth and the rest reaching out, personal messages and massive group texts, chains of “we’re okay, it’s okay” and “is it over?” He has one from Eileen too, although he’s willing to bet he’s the afterthought, and he doesn’t even mind. The message from Charlie just reads “thank you,” and Dean knows she doesn’t really like them like the old Charlie had, so Stevie must be okay too. He tries to think about what to say to them all. _Is_ it over? Chuck’s gone, but that doesn’t mean the nasty just disappears. He settles for an echo: “it’s okay.” It’s okay. If he says it enough times…

Dean gets out of bed, yanking on his dead-guy bathrobe and sliding into slippers. The soft, now-familiar fabric molds to his form as he ventures out into the hallway, wrapping him up. Holding him together. He checks his phone again. No other messages, but alerts for news apps are popping up. No one seems to be saying anything about the missing time, but then, they never really do about the supernatural. It’s just weather reports and tabloid shit and a recipe blog Dean follows posting some grilled chicken thing that he’s probably going to put on his list to try, if only because Sam is still on his case about the red meat.

(That’s a lie. Dean wants to try it anyway, but he can pretend, at any rate, that this is all Sam’s doing.)

He puts his phone in his pocket. His footsteps are too loud on the stone floor. There’s no other sound in the bunker. Why should there be? Sam’s gone, and every room Dean passes is perfectly empty. No one in the war room. No one in the library. He circles past the kitchen twice, even. He has no idea what he’s looking for.

On his cycle through the garage a sound startles him, a muffled thumping, and Dean all but crashes into the Impala in his haste to get the backseat door open. He stops. Miracle blinks back at him, and it nearly levels Dean. His knees all but give out, and he just barely manages to make his slide to the floor look intentional as the dog jumps down out of the backseat, licking across his face in a way that Dean can’t even shame her for. He buries his hands in her fur, giving her a proper scruffing, tucking his face against her neck as she lets out a low sound. “Hey,” he manages. “Yeah, hi.”

She cocks her head at him, and the wave that crashes over Dean nearly drowns him. He hugs her to him, clinging, and murmurs, “Good girl.” It takes him a long time to stand up again.

When he does, he gives a short whistle, and Miracle trots at his heels without difficulty. Dean doesn’t know if she’s been trained to, or if she’d follow him anyway, but it makes the empty feel a little less hollow.

He’s in the kitchen, still in his bathrobe, freshly made BLT in hand when Sam texts to let him know he got there safely, and Dean appreciates it. He’s sure Sam broke more than a few speed limits on the way, and it’d be spectacularly shitty if they survived all this crap just for a car accident to take one of them out. The rebar dream still clings to him. He’s trying not to think about it.

Miracle snuffles her nose against his foot, and Dean rewards her with a piece of bacon. He’d bet Sam is a “no table scraps” kind of dog owner but screw it. Whatever makes her happy. She deserves to be happy. He forces himself not to look at the sound of wings. It knots his stomach, the sudden roiling threatening to make the eaten half of his BLT surface again. He swallows hard and puts the other half back on the plate. He waits for two familiar words. Ones he hasn’t heard in a really long time.

“Hello.”

Dean closes his eyes, hard. It takes three seconds to shove everything down enough to open them again. Jack has that stupid fucking hand raised and everything, just like he always does, sitting next to Dean instead of across from him because the kid has his father’s sense of space. The kid has Cas’s everything.

“Heya, kid,” Dean says. “That was fast.” He’s almost proud of the fact that his voice doesn’t shake. He sounds…almost normal.

Jack nods. “We haven’t sorted everything out yet. It’s going to take time.”

“But you brought everyone back?”

“We did.” Jack looks down at Miracle. “Everyone who was on Earth when God sent them away. Even the ones from other realities. Billie didn’t like it, but we convinced her. They get to stay.”

“Billie?”

Another sage nod. “It’s not really her fault, at the end. There does need to be a natural order, and she really was trying for balance. My…grandfather…just has a way of twisting people, that’s all. Making them do things they wouldn’t. Amara and I, we convinced her and the Empty to stop fighting long enough to fix things. Billie was only mostly dead. Bringing her back…that was easy with both of us.” He smiled. “I think I like Amara. She won’t let me call her my aunt, but she’s nice. She really got to like it here.”

Dean doesn’t really know what to do with that information, so he leaves it. Instead, he asks, “So she’s not in your head anymore?”

“Nope.” Jack shook it. “When all this is over, I think she’ll probably end up like me. On Earth. But we’ve got a ways to go. I want to clean up heaven, fix it for the angels. And the people. Knock down all the doors. Make it more real. It won’t be like life down here, but it’ll be better, at least.”

Dean’s throat sticks. He doesn’t say anything.

“And hell,” Jack continues. “We haven’t worked it out, exactly, but we’ll clean that up too. I’m sure Rowena will like that.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet she will,” Dean mutters, but without heat. He likes the witch in spite of himself. Like he liked Crowley in spite of himself. Like…like he liked Cas in spite of himself, all those years ago.

“Anyway, that’s the easy part,” Jack said. “With four of us, it’s a lot easier to balance everything out. We’ve pulled all the…extra bits out of the universe. The story stuff God set up. It just needs a good shake, and then when we step back it’ll be good as new. But not new-new. Just…” Jack beamed. “Like it was. But better. Free will, like you taught me.”

Anyone other than Dean Winchester might be impressed at teaching God something. Dean taught God to drive, so it’s not earth-shattering or anything. But he does feel a little flash of pride. “Good,” he says, and it sticks a little, but it’s sincere. “That’s awesome.” He still doesn’t ask. If Jack didn’t lead with that…

As if he’s reading Dean’s mind, the kid’s face falls. He fidgets with his hands in his lap. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

Oh god. They’re actually going to do this, aren’t they?

“It was the first thing I wanted,” he says, so sincerely it hurts. “There’s…I mean, normally there’s ways to get angels out of the Empty, especially now. After…after what Billie and I did, it’s chaos there. It’s…loud, like the energy from the explosion woke everyone up, just a mess of nightmares and dreams and thoughts and memories bleeding over everything and…” He shakes himself, “Anyway, that had to be part of the deal. To make everything right again. No one but the Shadow has power in the Empty. That was the call. And I asked, but…”

He swallows hard, and looks so damn ashamed that if Dean wasn’t already white-knuckling it, he might reach out and cuff the kid around the shoulder just to show him it’s not his fault. His eyes fucking _water_ , and Dean can’t afford to look at that because then he’ll lose it too. “I’m so sorry,” Jack says. “There’s…there has to be an order to things now.” He sounds like he’s justifying it to himself too, and badly. “It’ll take time to sort out the Empty. To put everyone back to sleep. And then we’ll erase all the spells, the prayers…everything that could interfere.”

Dean just nods. Fucking figures. He’s got actual freedom now, and the one thing he wants to do with it…

“It’s my fault,” Jack says, and he sounds heartbroken. Dean looks at him.

“No,” he says, and Jack looks up. Dean shakes his head. “Cas told me about the deal, and that’s not on you, okay? Any one of us would have done the same.” Which was the Winchester problem, but Dean doesn’t say that. He’s done… _they’re_ done with the sacrifices. Cas was the last one. “You think it doesn’t hurt like hell? I’m the one who sent him there. I’m the one…” Fuck, he can’t say it. “I’m the one who made him happy,” he finishes, and it’s true but it sounds lame on his tongue. Miracle whines, and he scratches her behind the ears.

“Cas made his choice,” he says softly. “He was the only one of us writing his own book. He…what he did, he did. No one else.” It doesn’t make it hurt any less. “You’d get him out if you could.”

“I would, I swear.”

Dean grips his shoulder, squeezes tight. “I know you would. And thank you. For trying.” It’s all he can manage. His throat is full of lumps. Even he couldn’t swallow them all, so he opts for lapsing into silence.

Eventually, Jack says, “You can keep the dog.” Dean blinks stupidly at him, and Jack clarifies, “She didn’t belong to anyone, I mean. As far as I can tell, she was only made to…well, as that part of the story. And I thought…I mean, she deserves freedom too, right?”

“Right.” The word cracks, and Miracle whines again. Her nose bumps Dean’s leg. He gives her another piece of bacon, because if he pets her, he knows he’ll cling too tight. “Thanks.”

Jack nods. “I have to go now,” he says quietly. “But I’ll be back. If…if you still want me.”

He looks so much like Cas. Asking to stay. Always…always asking to stay, and Dean was so stupid not to see it. Or to see it and to still say no. This isn’t Jack’s fault, and Dean isn’t going to blame his son for it again. It’s the easy route, the _Chuck_ route, but Dean is letting go of anger.

“’Course,” he says gruffly. “Just ‘cause you can visit your mom in heaven whenever you want doesn’t make you any less of a Winchester, you hear me? You don’t get out of family movie night that easy.”

It’s not really the apology Jack deserves. It’s not the “you don’t need to bring Cas back for me to love you” that he should have said a long time ago but was too far drowning in crap to really mean. It’s not the “family is family, useful or not” that Dean thinks they all need to hear. But Jack gets it, he thinks. His son gets it.

When he wings off, Dean stays staring at the table. His phone buzzes a couple times, but he ignores it. He’s thinking about sacrifices again. Cas’s last one. What he said. And what Jack said about the Empty.

Eventually, he gets off his ass. He gets dressed. They need food, so he does a grocery run. It’s…it’s really fucking good actually, in a bizarre way. It doesn’t fix anything in Dean, but there’s something soothing in the methodical process of throwing shit in the cart, picking out a leash and a couple little doggie bandanas and crap for Miracle because fuck yeah he’s going to spoil her, he’s going to spoil her so damn hard so that she likes him better than Sam because that would just be hysterical. Dean has never claimed to be the dog person, has a complicated history with dogs but honestly? This could be fun.

It’s something, anyway, and Dean really needs that something. For the hell of it, he even swings by the local mechanic shop. It’s a tiny place, like a lot of Lebanon, run by a butch woman named Diana, and Dean almost never goes in there except when he needs parts because she’ll order them for him through the shop’s system, but he was pretty sure he remembered her saying something about looking for a new mechanic because her current one’s a kid about ready to leave for college (her kid, and he looks just like his mom, Diana’s partner, who is leggy and blonde and reminds Dean of his own mom, if his own mom were covered in tattoos and dressed like she shopped exclusively from vintage catalogues) and what the hell. It’s not like Dean has a lot of marketable skills – or a social security number he can use, or even a resume – but Diana knows him, and she and Meredith like him, and if Dean’s really serious about giving up hunting he’s got to find _something_ to occupy himself with. He’s always liked cars, so that’s a place to start.

Diana gives him the application with a grin and a wink, and Dean grins back. He even makes it to the car again before the hollow feeling slams back into his chest. He takes deep breaths, but that’s a good thing, right? Finding little moments that don’t ache? It’s a sign that things will get better. It has to be.

The rebar dream is tempting. He used to think he deserved that. It’s not really a blaze of glory or anything, but still a hunter’s death. He wonders if Sammy would really let him go this time. Jack would probably insist. Natural order, and all.

And maybe there was a time when Dean would have just been okay with that. God knows his mental health hasn’t always been stable (and Dean’s going to ignore the irony of that phrase). He remembers a couple years ago - Cas gone, everything empty and hollow - killing himself on a case and thinking that it was okay whichever way it went. It hadn’t scared him then, but it sure as hell scares him now, thinking like that. Cas fucking died for him. What kind of shitty repayment is it if Dean gives up all this, his brand-new _free_ life, all of, what, two days later?

(It’s been more than two days, probably, but time feels surreal right now and Dean doesn’t have the energy to work out the math.)

So it hurts. Fuck yeah, it hurts. But Dean doesn’t even care if it takes a fleet of shrinks, he’s not going to let it win this time. He’s going to live this fucking life if it kills him.

Well. Hopefully it won’t kill him. And hopefully it won’t take a shrink. But he’s willing to put in the effort. That’s the point.

Miracle dances around his feet when he gets back to the bunker, and he promises her he’ll take her out next time, dangling the leash for her to bark excitedly over before he goes to put the groceries away. He makes dinner – enough for him, and enough for leftovers for Sam if he comes home tonight or Dean tomorrow if he doesn’t – and lays on his bed awhile. He even makes it halfway through filling out the application before the sheer overwhelming sense of “what the fuck even is this” hits him and he has to sit up and grip the edge of the mattress, feet planted firmly on the floor to try and ground himself. Dean knows approximately jack shit about living a normal life. He folds up the application and sets it on his dresser, then sends off two texts, one to Sam’s check-in telling him to have fun, Dean wouldn’t wait up, and one to Jody asking her how the hell to fill out a job ap when your legal status is ‘serial killer/terrorist and also dead, probably.’ Even with Lisa, working construction, he hadn’t applied for it. A friend of hers had given him the job. Hell, for all he knows, Sam might have the answer, and Dean tells himself he’ll ask once the Sam-Eileen lovefest calms down a little. It’s going to be fine.

Miracle lifts her head when Dean stands, but she doesn’t rise from her place at the foot of his bed. Dean grips his sink, studying his face in the little mirror. He looks…

He looks old, he thinks. Older than he really anticipated being. But it also looks good on him; Dean’s always had boyish charm, a face that people called pretty (not all of them kindly, John included), but somehow, without his noticing, that’s shifted. He’s still kind of pretty, he thinks, but there’s a weight to his features. Maturity is maybe the wrong word, but as much as Dean has always resisted the idea of getting old, he’s aged well. He’s not ancient, or anything, but still.

Is this what Cas saw in him? Maybe. In part, at least. Dean tries to trace the timeline back; Cas hadn’t said, but Dean wonders if he can pinpoint the moment where things changed for them. The terrifying thing is, he really can’t. He thinks about Cas dying in a barn, the “I love you, I love all of you,” looking away because it was too close, too much. The time he almost said it, in Lucifer’s crypt, his face bloody and beaten, his hands still reaching out to Cas, and how he’d swallowed his tongue because it was too intimate and everything had seemed so wrong. The singlemindedness of Purgatory. Cas rebelling for him.

It had been some angel – Hester, maybe? After all these years, most of them have blurred together in his mind – who had said it was the touch of Dean in hell that had broken Cas. Fuck, even Chuck had said that saving Dean was supposed to be Cas’s one goal, that after that he was supposed to fall back in line and _hadn’t._ And Dean…he touches his shoulder, almost absently. He hasn’t borne the handprint scar for a very long time, but he still feels it. He hasn’t even washed the jacket with Cas’s blood on it; it seems like blasphemy.

Cas had seen his soul. And he’d fallen in love. It’s the only conclusion Dean can draw. It’s crazy, but it feels right. Maybe Cas hadn’t known that’s what it was – _he_ sure as hell hadn’t, and Dean had been familiar with human emotion from the get-go – but Dean can feel, deep down, that it’s true. And he thinks maybe it’s true for him too. He doesn’t really remember Cas saving him. But when he thinks of hell, amongst all the dark moments, all the pain, there is a flash. A settling. Like his soul, twisted and shredded and broken almost beyond repair, had seen something and said, “Oh. You.”

Dean shudders a little, and his grip on the sink tightens. He’s spent so long denying it. It’s not just Cas, either. Dean’s known, _fuck_ he’s known, that he’s not just into women. And he’s buried it deep, because that was the safest option. And the last few years, he’s started to think _maybe_. But not about Cas. He couldn’t let himself think like that about Cas. His best friend. The angel who couldn’t return his feelings because he wasn’t built that way. Except apparently, he could. And he did. Because Dean had reached in and broken him, just a little. Just enough for him to love.

He wonders if he should hate himself for that, breaking Cas. He knows Chuck meant him to. And he feels guilty, yeah. But…if that’s the one thing that made Cas truly free, Dean can make peace with it.

He meets his own eyes in the mirror. They’re watery now, but Dean doubts Miracle will judge. He opens his mouth, and then closes it again. He works his jaw a few times, but his throat still gets caught, choking on silence. But he keeps trying, until he can get out the words.

“I love him,” Dean says to himself in the mirror. “I love Cas.” And then he shatters.

Miracle eventually joins him on the floor, when Dean’s stopped shaking quite so badly with sobs. She leans so heavily into his side that Dean thinks he may collapse under her, but it helps. The weight is solid, is tangible, and it gives him something to hold onto.

Cas had been speaking his truth when he’d said those things about Dean. Dean can’t doubt he meant it, can’t even really deny it fully because he wants so badly for it all to be true. But there is one part of Cas’s confession that Dean cannot accept.

Happiness isn’t in being. It’s not in fucking saying it. Because Dean’s here, and he’s said it, and he’s not fucking happy.

It takes him a very long time to make it into bed.

***

Dean’s in the library when Sam clangs back into the bunker. He’s is practically radiating happiness, even all the way across the room, and it’s…it’s a lot, so Dean keeps his eyes on the lore book spread out in front of him. The knuckles of his free hand press against the table, inches away from the initials carved deep into the wood. He swipes his thumb over the empty space and looks up only when Sam bounds to a stop, a frown furrowing his brother’s brow as he takes in the scene. Dean doesn’t want to guess which part of it has surprised him. Miracle’s tail thumps against the floor, and Sam bends down to pet her almost on instinct.

“Hey girl,” he coos, and Miracle rolls over for the belly rub he gives her. From his crouch, Sam looks up. “So Jack brought her back too, huh?”

“Uh-huh.” Dean stretches for the glass he has out, just out of easy reach. One glass, he’d told himself, the whiskey bottle safely back on the shelf where it belongs. The urge to just go for the bottle, glass be damned, is strong, but Dean’s planning a long life out of sheer stubbornness if nothing else, and his liver’s pretty pickled as it is. He swallows half of what’s left and sets the glass down again. “She’s all ours.”

“And you’re…okay with that?” Sam sounds skeptical as he stands, taking a seat opposite Dean. Miracle’s head drops down onto her paws again, her tail still whacking Dean’s leg.

“Yeah, I’m cool,” Dean says. He turns a page, pointedly trying not to notice the way his brother’s looking around. He fails miserably.

“He’s not here,” Dean says, finally, just to get Sam to _stop._ Sam startles guiltily, and Dean plows on, eyes still down. “Jack stopped by, and it looks like things are going okay up there, but…no. He tried, but no.”

Sam’s silence is too fucking loud. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean watches his brother’s face fall, his shoulders slumping. “Oh. I thought, maybe…”

“Yeah. Me too.” He smooths his hand over the page deliberately, before he accidentally tears the edges of the ancient paper.

“Are you…okay?”

Dean closes his eyes, turns his head even farther away. He thinks about downing the rest of the whiskey, and doesn’t. “No,” he says, when he opens his eyes again. He meets Sammy’s gaze, and the fucking pity makes him want to throw something – that or start crying again – but he does neither. “I’m not okay,” he says. He’s done the pretending before, unconvincing or otherwise. He’s not fucking lying about it this time. “I’m not okay,” he repeats. “But I’m not…I’m not looking to, you know.” The whiskey is so tempting. “Just…one day at a time, right? Or some crap like that?”

“Right.” Sam doesn’t look entirely convinced. Dean wraps his hand around the glass and lets it sit there.

“Did I tell you how it happened?” he says at length. It’s eating him up inside, these words, like after all the times he’s swallowed them down, saying them once has released a dam, and now they won’t stop coming out. Sam shakes his head.

“Not really,” he says. “I mean. You said he…saved you?”

“He saved me.” The laugh startles them both. It’s not an empty sound, but the weight it holds is heavy enough to choke. Dean’s jaw clenches around it, but he doesn’t let it lock. “He saved me.” He still has half an eye on the table. On the glass, and the carved lettering, and the book in front of him. “He made a deal. With the Empty. A long…a while ago. When we were trying to put Jack’s soul back in his body.”

Sam nods, but he stays thankfully silent, and Dean keeps talking. The words won’t come out fast enough. “He made a deal. His life for Jack’s, and then the Empty could have him. But…it didn’t want him right away, I guess. It wanted to wait until Cas…until he felt ‘true happiness’ or some shit.” Dean sucks in a breath. “He summoned the Empty, Sammy. Billie was gonna kill us, and Cas…he summoned the Empty to stop her, to save me, _knowing_ what would happen, _knowing_ he would die for it and I…”

His voice breaks. Sam is watching him carefully, and Dean can’t meet his eyes. Not fully. “You should have heard him, man. No one…shit, _no one_ has ever said anything like that to me. Like…like he just knew. Like he thought I needed to hear it before he...before he…”

“What did he say?” There’s a softness in Sam’s voice that Dean suddenly understands, because he knows his kid brother like the back of his hand. Better, maybe. Somehow, Sam _knows_. But he knows Dean’s going to say it anyway.

“He told me he loved me.” It hurts. It hurts like a son of a bitch, like razor wire in his throat, like swallowing bleach and coughing it up again. Dean keeps going. “That was it for him. True happiness. Saying…telling me he loved me, even though he thought…”

“Let me guess,” Sam says, still infuriatingly soft. “He thought he couldn’t have you? That you didn’t feel the same?”

“Yeah.” It’s an exhale more than a word. It leaves Dean’s lungs and hangs there. “I mean…maybe he knew. But maybe he thought…” Dean shakes his head. “I don’t know what he thought. I know we’ve been…I mean, he’s an _angel_. Was. Was an angel.” Dean coughs a little. He covers it with the whiskey. No more, he swears to himself. Last call.

When he swallows, Sam’s still looking at him. Dean swallows again, with more purpose. “I’m not…not saying it doesn’t suck. I know…I mean, Cas didn’t have a lot of friends but-“

“I know,” Sam says. The corner of his mouth twitches, but Dean can’t guess what expression it wants to be. “He was my friend too.”

“I love him, Sammy.” Not past tense, not this. Somehow, it comes out easy. Dean’s halfway to crying, like he swore he wouldn’t, but the words still come out easy. “I fucking…I love him so much it fucking _hurts_. And he’s _gone,_ and I can’t…”

“I know,” Sam says again, and he’s sitting forward, not reaching out or anything, just _being_ there. “I know,” he says, and it’s basically nothing, but it helps.

He doesn’t say anything else for a long while, doesn’t comment on Dean’s shoulders shaking, on the way he blinks but can’t get that one fucking tear to stay in his eye where it belongs. Finally, Dean rubs a hand over his face, and it’s not perfect, but he feels calm again, if nothing else. “You marry her,” he says, and Sam looks up again. “I’m serious. You…you marry her or don’t and have kids or don’t but whatever you do you don’t let it get away, you hear me? If it makes you happy, you hold onto that shit as tight as you can.” Don’t be like me, he doesn’t say, but he knows Sam can hear it anyway. “Eileen…she’s good people.”

Sam nods. “I love her,” he says, and it’s not really a confession when he’s said as much before, but that doesn’t matter right now.

They’re quiet a moment longer, and then: “So what now?”

“I don’t know,” Dean admits. His fingers curl around the edges of the book.

Sam’s gaze follows the gesture. “Are you going to do something stupid?”

“Not sure there’s anything stupid to do.” Not for lack of looking. “Jack said…he said they’re cleaning it all up. There’s spells and shit, but.” He takes a deep breath. “Even if they still work, the Empty took Cas personally. I don’t think there’s a ritual out there powerful enough for me to spring him.”

“But you’re still going to try.”

“I have to.” It’s the Winchester way. “This…this is the last one. But I have to try.”

Sam doesn’t try to argue with him. He just nods, like he gets it. “And then?”

Dean scrubs at his face, runs his fingers through his hair. He needs sleep, he knows, but the thought of that empty mattress seems overwhelming. “Then I’m out. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but whether it works or not, I’m out. Retired, the works.” He looks up. “What about you? Free will and all. You got a plan?”

Sam shrugs. “I’m not sure. But I think…maybe not going back out in the field, or at least not a lot, but we’ve got the power here to help a lot of people.” Sam gives a vague gesture towards the library around them. “Lore, magic…someone needs to be here to facilitate it.”

“Sam Winchester, Man of Letters.”

“Exactly.” Sam settles back in his chair. When Dean looks at him, he thinks it might be the first time, at least in a long time, that he’s seen Sam for who he is. Not his kid brother. Not a responsibility. A leader in his own right, and a confident one at that.

It looks good on him. “And hey,” Dean manages, and he even cracks a grin, “with Eileen here, who knows? We might have our own little empire here before you know it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam pulls a bitchface, and Dean laughs.

“No, I’m serious,” he says, in a tone that is anything but. “With her brains and your freaky moose whatever, she could really get some things done around here. Hunters of America, that kind of thing. You’d enjoy being arm candy, wouldn’t you, Sammy?”

“Shut up,” Sam says without heat. He’s smiling too. “Jerk.”

“Hmm.” Dean falls silent. He raps his knuckles against the table. The familiar retort is there on his tongue, but…maybe he really is just getting old.

And he thinks maybe Sam gets that too, because his brother gives a short nod and stands, his hand brushing briefly over the initials, lingering on Mary’s. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He doesn’t offer to help, which is fine by Dean. Something’s shifted between them. They’re not tied together anymore, that codependency they’ve known was toxic but couldn’t seem to shake, because that’s what Chuck was writing. But he’s not writing them anymore, and this is something Dean has to do on his own.

He rubs his eyes, blinking blearily against the sleep trying to settle into them, and turns another page.

***

It takes a miracle (lowercase m) but Dean does in fact stay out of the liquor cabinet. He catches a few hours of sleep – fitful, full of nightmares of empty heaven and endless road – and eats mostly by virtue of Miracle (uppercase M) reminding him to feed her. Sam leaves him alone; Dean is pretty sure he’s spending a lot of his time video chatting with Eileen and checking in with the apocalypse world hunters, building the first stages of that empire now that the world isn’t ending (hopefully for the last time). Dean knows he’s got some texts, from Donna and Jody and Claire and Garth, but he doesn’t answer them yet. They’ll all be about real life, and he’s…he’s not ready for that, just yet. He will be. Just…

He put in a call to Rowena, because if anyone outside of the bunker would have the kind of information he needs, it would be her, but she hasn’t answered back. Dean doesn’t know if she’s dead (again?) with the demons throwing coups in hell or if she’s just busy – Jack did say they were reforming everything, after all – but it doesn’t really matter. He just knows he’s running out of time. He’s acutely aware of every hour that slips by, and while he doesn’t know how long exactly it takes four cosmic beings to rewrite the rules of the universe, how long it takes to put every angel and demon who’s ever died back to sleep, to make the Empty quiet again, he does know that odds are on sooner rather than later. He’s tense, braced for the sound of wings, because surely Jack will come back when it’s over. Surely he’ll come back, and he’ll tell Dean that it’s too late.

The card catalogue’s findings on angels and demons had long since proven pretty robust – nothing, comparatively, to a lot of the resources they have on any other given thing that goes bump in the night, but pretty extensive considering the pretty serious lack of angels and demons on earth prior to that first not-pocalypse. The handful kicking around back then must have been plenty, or maybe Dean’s just been a little spoiled, relatively speaking, for cosmic company. He knows now that was just Chuck’s storytelling in action, but after a decade of open hellgates and fallen angels, it’s almost weird that Dean _doesn’t_ have at least one on speed dial anymore.

(He does. He hasn’t…he can’t delete Cas’s number. He called it once, but the phone must have been in Cas’s pocket when he got taken, because there’s not so much as a voicemail recording on the other end of the line.)

He closes another dead-end, dry-as-fuck textbook when the words start to blur together, his eyes watering not from any display of emotion this time, but just because he’s been staring for hours and he’s brain dead. He growls to himself, a sound that makes Miracle whine, tail tucked between her legs as she stands with him, slinking after Dean as he skulks down the hall. He gives her an apology pat, ruffling her fur before pointedly leaving her outside the bunker showers, turning the water as hot as he can stand and just scrubbing until his skin is red and raw, letting the steam fill his lungs. The water drips down out of his hair and across his forehead, into his eyes, and Dean squeezes them shut and rubs at them. He can feel the stubble across his cheeks, turning into a proper scruff. When was the last time he shaved? He can’t even remember.

He barely thinks about it when he dresses again, yanking things from his drawers at random, trying to keep his eyes on the floor instead of the back of his bedroom door, where the jacket still hangs. Cas’s blood has long since dried on it, the handprint dark against the green. Dean can’t bring himself to touch the thing, and not just for fear that his still-damp hands might ruin the mark. It’s stupid, he thinks, but he doesn’t even have a trenchcoat to hold onto this time, doesn’t know where the mixtape wound up. Cas never moved into the bunker, not really, and what little he accumulated on Earth has to be somewhere. Abandoned.

Dean doesn’t linger. His skin still burns from the shower, but he doesn’t feel revived. He still feels drained. He doesn’t bother trying to shave; his hands are shaking badly enough that he’s afraid to pick up the razor. No more drinks, he reminds himself. Not yet. Not until he knows.

He’s so out of it that he doesn’t react right away to the figure in the library, doesn’t really register it until he’s halfway up the steps. He freezes, and Billie gives him a slow smile. “Hey, Dean. Long time, no see.” She’s leaning against her scythe, and somehow it looks longer and sharper and meaner than it did when Dean last picked it up and…

He lunges, his teeth bared in a snarl, but Billie holds up a hand, stopping him in his tracks as surely as if she’d magicked him. “I come in peace, Dean.”

Dean grits his teeth. “Last time I saw you, you were hell-bent on killing me.”

“And last time I saw you, you and your angel got me sent to the Empty. Not to mention your little fit with this.” Her fingers stroke up and down the weapon in her hands, and she levels a gaze at Dean that’s dark and piecing and sucks all the air out of his lungs. “But I’m willing to let bygones be bygones. We were all pawns here. So I forgive you for trying to kill me. Twice. And in return, you can stop acting like what happened here was my fault.”

Dean opens his mouth, and then closes it again. He nods, and Billie relaxes almost imperceptibly, her posture loosening into something more casual, less posed. She gestures, and Dean takes the steps forward, watching her. “So,” he says. “You’re Death again, huh?”

“That’s right.” Billie must really be taking his word for it – that, or she’s got enough power now to really not care – because she turns her back on him, her eyes on the bookshelves, running a curious finger over the swords on display. “New and improved. All charged up and ready to go.”

“And you’re cool? With everything?”

Her eyes flick back to him. “You mean, am I going to send you, or your brother, or any of the other should-be-deaders back to where they belong? No. Your son convinced me that we’d all been had. That a…fresh start was in order. Clean slate for everyone. At least, everyone who made it to the end, from this world or otherwise. I keep the rest, wherever they really belong.” She shrugs. “I’ll admit, it’s not my favorite compromise, but if it means that going forward, I don’t have to go chasing hunters who make stupid, cosmic messes? Well then. I’m willing to be generous.”

“Uh-huh.” Generous would mean the o.g. Charlie back. Would mean Kevin. Hell, would mean Jess, even, and their mom, and everyone else who died because of Chuck’s stupid story. But, as much as he hates it, Dean kind of understands. Or, at least, he understands where Billie is coming from. And it’s selfish, but part of him is glad. Everyone back means John Winchester too, and Dean…he’s let go of a lot of anger at his father, but he doesn’t think he’s ever really going to forgive him for what he did to them growing up. It was abuse, plain and simple, and Dean can say that now. He’s ready to move past it, but he doesn’t think he wants to see John again. Not on Earth, and not in heaven, whenever that day comes. Assuming heaven is where John even belongs.

He shadows Billie, so there’s only the bookshelf between them. He can see her through the blades, their images reflected in the edges. “So,” he hedges, his voice sharp and dangerous. “This is a social call, then?”

The corner of Billie’s lips quirk, like Dean’s said something funny. “Well, that depends. Planning on making any stupid, cosmic messes, Dean?”

Dean’s throat clenches. He grits his teeth. “Maybe.”

“A very Winchester answer.” Billie still seems amused, but Dean doesn’t get the joke. She looks at him, head on. “Tell me something, Dean. Even if you stop hunting, you’ve got an awful lot of friends and family who plan to keep on keeping on. What happens if something goes wrong? If they die?”

“Is this a test or a threat?”

“You tell me.”

Dean meets her gaze. “Then it sucks. But we chose this. What’s dead should stay dead.”

“No demon deals? No…calling the queen of hell asking for a favor? No sending word up to heaven, to your son, looking to make an exception?”

“No,” Dean says, and means it.

“Hmm.” Billie’s eyes flick over his face. Dean doesn’t know what she finds there, but she turns away, strolling to another shelf. “You know,” she says, conversationally, “your son is lobbying for some pretty radical changes. And not just shaking up heaven and hell.” She smirks at Dean over her shoulder, “Kudos to him, by the way, for not asking for any souls out of there, either. His mother, and yours, still where they belong. No, I’m talking ‘not all monsters go to Purgatory’ big. Something about…people doing their best deserving better.”

It’s so very Jack, and so very Cas. Dean swallows hard. “Yeah, well. He’s a good kid.”

“Yeah. He’d have made a halfway decent God, too. Which is probably why he’s giving the whole thing up, more or less.” Billie actually sounds impressed, maybe even a little fond. Jack has a way of doing that to people. For the devil’s son, he grew on you.

Dean shrugs. “Earth is where it’s happening. I’m sure Jack wants to spend time with his mom, but heaven’s gonna be heaven, no matter what he does to it. Here, we’ve got a chance to do something with our lives. And I think the kid just wants to be a part of that.”

“Yes,” Billie says. “I think he does.” Dean can’t see her face, but he’s pretty sure he can hear her lips twist into a smile. “He’s got a lot to learn. About himself, and about the universe.”

“Meaning?”

“Time’s almost up, Dean,” Billie says, as if that’s the most natural segue there is. She gives him a significant look. “I’m sure Jack told you about our work in the Empty. Quieting it down, putting everyone back to sleep. Your boy, Ruby, Lucifer, the works. We’re getting pretty closed to finished there, and when we do, we pop the lock. No more in or out, ‘cept for people dying.”

Dean’s stomach clenches. “Sure,” he manages, almost casual.

“It’s funny, the Empty,” Billie drawls. “Can’t say I’m really a fan, even without cosmic interference. Still. You have to make nice. And Jack really is a good kid. Shame about his father.”

She’s not talking about Lucifer, and Dean knows it. “Yeah,” he croaks. “It’s a real fucking shame.”

Billie hums to herself. “Well, that’s the Empty for you. I may have given up a grudge or two, but it isn’t quite so forgiving. Castiel might have wiggled his way out once, but I doubt he’d be able to again. And once those doors slam shut…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grunts. “You said that already.”

“Did I?” Billie chuckles. “Well then. Must be time for me to get back to work.” She shifts the scythe from hand to hand, examining it. Her eyes flick up to Dean. “See you around, Winchester.”

“I sure as hell hope not,” Dean says. Not for a long, long time.

“That’s what I like to hear.” Between blinks, Billie vanishes, leaving Dean standing alone in the library.

Miracle’s tag jingles, signaling her return from the hallway. Dean glances back at her as she pauses on the library’s threshold, cocking her head. “Yeah, I got nothing,” he tells her, shaking his head as he yanks another text from the shelf. Billie’s warning – taunt? He doesn’t even know – rings in his ears. They’re almost done. He’s running out of time.

As he sits down, his gaze catches on something, and his hands still halfway through opening the volume he’s picked out. There’s a book in the middle of the aisle Billie had walked down, splayed open on the floor like it had fallen from the shelf spine-down. Dean glances at Miracle. “No. No, that…” Billie doesn’t like him. It can’t be that easy.

But Billie also doesn’t like the Empty, apparently. And if there’s any time to play games, it’s now, before all the new rules are set in stone. Dean gets up, crossing to the book, and picks it up gingerly, half expecting it to burn. It doesn’t. It’s just a book, one from their own library, but the page it’s open to…

Yeah. It’s about angels. And yeah, it’s about the Empty. The spell it describes doesn’t sound simple, and it’s only half a solution, but hey. Dean’s not one to do things by halves, and he’s not about to let a gift like this one go to waste.

***

“What’s the risk?” Sam asks, which is fair, because in shit like this, there’s always a risk, a catch, some cosmic screw-you that fucks them over because hey, that’s just how Chuck liked it.

“Honestly?” Dean says. “I don’t really know.”

They’re in the bunker kitchen, not just Dean and Sam but Eileen too. Miracle seems taken with her, not as much as she is with Dean, but enough that she’s lying at Eileen’s feet while Dean flips pancakes. Without his hands free to sign – and he’s surprised at how much of it has come back, the little Dean learned to try and communicate in those early years, after Mom died the first time, when speaking aloud had been too hard – Dean makes sure to turn when he talks, so Eileen can get in on this too. Her lips are pursed as she watches him, her gaze flickering to Sam every so often, but she doesn’t say anything, aloud or with her hands, just yet.

Sam doesn’t look happy, although his eyes do soften whenever he glances back towards Eileen. He folds his arms across his chest, leaning back against the kitchen wall. “I’m not going to tell you not to do it-“

“Good.”

“-I just want you to be sure, I mean really sure, about this. Cas _died_ for you. You don’t think-“

“I think,” Dean interrupts again, “that if there’s even a shot of saving Cas, I need to take it. And I think Cas would get that.” He sighs, pulling the pan off the stove and letting it hiss and cool as the last pancake gets flipped onto a plate. “I get it, okay?” he says, shoving one plate towards Sammy and dropping the other in front of Eileen. “It’s big magic, and that kind of thing usually has a price tag. But I’ve checked it backwards and forwards, and yeah, there’s a risk, but I don’t have to give up my life or my soul or any shit like that on my end.”

“Okay!” Sam holds up his hands in surrender. “So, tell me how it works.”

“It takes some pretty exotic ingredients,” Dean admits, “but we’ve got a lot of them already, and the rest are being taken care of.” He hopes. “And it needs a pretty powerful witch, but I’m kind of hoping we’ve got that covered too.” This time, he doesn’t even mean Rowena.

Sam is already nodding. Dean takes a breath. The hollowness, the grief, it all sort of faded as soon as he got his hands on the book. Still there, for sure, but muffled by the hope. “See, the thing is,” he explains, sliding into the seat across from Eileen, fingers tense as he laces them together because he wouldn’t have the first clue how to sign ninety percent of these words, “As far as the lore goes, it seems like actually pulling an angel, or a demon, from the Empty takes god-level power. So like, you can basically pray them out if you’ve got an almighty on your side.”

“But we don’t,” Sam confirms.

“We don’t,” Dean agrees. He still can’t blame Jack. The kid is trying to fix the fucking universe, and for that he needs everyone on his side, Empty included. “But this spell isn’t for yanking an angel out. It’s for getting in.”

“Meaning, what, exactly?” Eileen is the one who says it, both eyebrows raised significantly.

“Meaning Sam does the spell, and that tears open a hole between the dimensions, just big enough for a soul to slip through.”

“Hang on-“ Sam interjects.

Dean plows over him. “Nothing angelic or demonic can escape the Empty. Even awake, even with a rift open, that essence, grace, whatever, the thing that makes them not human? It can’t leave, not without someone big giving the okay. But a soul? A soul can slip in and out, no problem.”

“So you let your _soul_ run loose in the Empty while there’s angels and demons awake?” Sam says in disbelief. “Angels and demons who, let’s be real, you probably helped put there?”

“I said it was a risk,” Dean snaps. He swallows, waiting for the gut-reaction anger to fade, then continues more evenly. “I’ll be shielded, more or less, by the spell. It’s basically fancy astral-projection. I whammy my way in, find where the Empty is keeping Cas, and bring him back out. Easy as pie.”

“And you think the Empty is just going to let you?” Sam shakes his head. “You think you get to walk out with an _angel_ , an angel the Empty _specifically_ wants to punish, and it’s just going to go well for you? You just said-“

“I’ve got a plan,” Dean says. “Trust me, Sammy. I’ve got it worked out.” He does, is the thing. It’s kind of a terrible plan. But it is a plan. “Look,” he says. “If things go sideways. If I can’t get Cas out or if…if he doesn’t…” A lump rises in Dean’s throat. He remembers Purgatory, and Lucifer, and Cas’s boneheaded habit of thinking he doesn’t deserve to be saved. He tries not to think about where the angel learned that from and pushes on. “You pull me back, stick me back in my body and seal the rift back up. No big deal. But if this has even a fraction of a chance of working, I gotta try.”

“You said they’re almost done sealing up the Empty?” Eileen asks. “This is your only chance to get him back, right?”

Dean nods, and she looks up at Sam. It’s a long look, and what passes between them is beyond words. She turns back to Dean. “Then you gotta do this. If not, you’ll always be wondering.”

“Exactly,” Dean says. He exhales, long and slow, and looks at his brother. “So?”

Sam’s face is pinched. Dean wonders which deal he’s thinking about, which stupid call one of them made that twisted them deeper and deeper into this mess before Jack cut the strings for good. But he’s looking at Eileen, who’s playing with Miracle’s tail while she stuffs a forkful of pancake into her mouth and oh yeah, Dean’s calling wedding bells any day now. “Okay,” Sam says. “I’m in.”

“Last one,” Dean swears.

“Last one,” Sam echoes. “For Cas.”

“For Cas.”

***

Dean will never be over just how well-stocked the Men of Letter’s supply is. It’s like Bobby’s house always was, but even more so, and with a slightly better filing system. Hopefully that’s one of the things Sam plans on keeping up when he’s running things or whatever. There’s always hunter-friendly magic shops, but some of this shit costs a fortune to get ahold of, no matter how much it’s meant to help people.

They’ve got all the basic ingredients they need, and some of the more exotic ones too. The rest, well. Dean has his sources. Rowena still isn’t answering her phone but he gets a text message for an address and a promise that it isn’t hexed like some of her other caches are. It’s not too long a drive, and Baby could use the exercise. He even lets Miracle ride in the front seat, which she loves, sticking her head out the passenger-side window, mouth open, panting into the wind. Dean feels it catching on his elbow, propped out the driver-side window, and lets it whisk through his hair. In the best way, he thinks this might be pretty damn close to flying.

“You think I’m being stupid?” he’d asked Eileen on his way out. She’s smiled and shaken her head.

“He’s your person,” she told him. “You love him, right?”

A nod would have confirmed, but Dean says and signs it. “I do. I love him.” He can’t say the words enough. He’s not going to let himself choke them down again.

“Well, there you go.”

It might still be stupid. Dean won’t pretend that people don’t do stupid things for love all the time, regardless of whether or not the universe is pulling the strings. Hell, Cas is a walking manual in the concept. But it’s Dean’s kind of stupid. The kind of stupid that could make him go from suicidal to laughing in a cowboy hat in no time flat, and Dean needs that. He’s gonna cling to that hope for as long as it holds out, and he’ll cross any other bridges when he comes to them.

Sam is waiting when he gets back. The spell technically works anywhere, but magically speaking the walls are thinnest where the Empty has already been, which means they’re doing this down in the dungeon. Dean’s steps falter when he walks into the room, and he nearly fumbles the plastic bag he’s stashed the rest of the ingredients in. He drops it on the folding table Sam’s set up instead, tracking the spots on the floor where Cas’s blood dripped. The sigil has burned off the door but this, like the handprint on his jacket, is still here. Proof. Miracle sniffs over the floor, and Dean gently corrals her out the door, shutting it behind her and wincing when she lets out a whining howl at the injustice.

“You good?” Sam asks. Dean nods. Gives a short ‘yes’ with his hands too, smirking to make Eileen smile. It hides the way his stomach is lurching, the way he’s pretty sure he’s gonna start vibrating out of his skin if they’re not ready soon. It already feels like it’s been too long.

Sam finishes combining the ingredients, just like the book instructs. The Empty is fucking massive, so in order to get him in the ballpark of Cas, it recommends using something belonging to the angel, like a tether. Dean’s pretty sure Cas still has a hold on his soul, but just in case he carefully scraped a few flakes of blood off the jacket, collecting them in a little Ziplock baggie for Sam, who shakes them into the bowl. He crushes everything to a powder, pours something dark and syrupy into the mix, and lights the candle before looking at Dean. “Ready?”

Dean drops into the chair, because if he collapses the moment he’s stepped out of his body, that’s going to hurt like a bitch. He slaps his thighs with a confidence he doesn’t feel and leans back. “Ready.”

Sam nods, passing the candle over the bowl to let the wax drip down. The incantation is droning. It sounds like Enochian – not that Dean speaks it, but he recognizes the structure – or maybe something even older. The hot droplets hit the liquid and hiss as they sink below the surface, and for a second, panic seizes him. Nothing is happening. They’re too late, the spell is useless, and Dean has been through all this shit for nothing.

And then he feels it. A sort of tug that floors him, makes him grab on hard to the back of his chair for balance. Sam doesn’t stop speaking, his voice ringing with the spell, and Dean feels something sever in him, yanking backwards. He gets one last look at his body, Eileen jumping forward as it goes slack in the chair, making sure he doesn’t fall, and then he’s pulled into darkness.

When he gets his bearings, it’s not what he expects. Dean isn’t exactly sure what he’d been picturing – miles and miles of gooey black swamp, maybe? Like the stuff that took Cas? Or maybe some sort of technicolor chaos, with all the angels and demons awake. It’s neither, just flat black empty as far as the eye can see. It’s not dark, Dean realizes abruptly. There’s just…nothing.

Nothing except him. When he looks down at his hands, or at least the projection of his hands, they’re lit faintly. It’s not some kind of fairy dust glow or anything, but it’s definitely like he’s been illuminated. He runs his hands down the front of his shirt, over the back of his jeans, checking pockets, making sure he’s all here. It’s just a projection, sure, but he’s not only still dressed, he’s still carrying all the shit he always carries. His fingers linger on the shape of his pocketknife for just a moment. He remembers picking it up off the floor where Cas dropped it, how easily Cas had slipped it from his pocket in order to paint a sigil in his own blood because Dean’s heart was too twisted in his chest to do anything. He hadn’t needed to check, had just grabbed it. Like he knew where it would be. Like he remembered seeing Dean put it there and had filed it away in his list of Cas’s Facts About Dean Winchester: a good man, a being of love, a brother, a son, a self-loathing mess. The man who broke an angel, cherished his car, and kept his pocketknife in the same damn pocket every time. Cas remembers eons of time. How much of his memory is dedicated to Dean?

He picks a direction and starts walking. All he really has to go on is this ringing in his ears – _you made it loud_ – like hundreds upon thousands of bells, going quiet one by one. It gets a little louder as he goes, so he thinks he might be on the right track. There’s no sign of the tear between worlds, but Dean can still feel his connection to his body, a thin string gradually pulling tighter as he walks. Sam will snap him back out if he tugs on it, so Dean lets it alone. He’s not going to touch it until he’s good and ready.

There’s no ground beneath him, no horizon. It makes him think of Indiana Jones, the bridge that you can’t see, like walking on air. He’s pretty sure he’d feel significantly cooler with the hat and the whip, but all he’s got is his boots and his flannel and the sinking feeling with each step that maybe he’s already too late. The Empty is supposed to be made up of dreams, isn’t it? A Memorex replay, like heaven, except not just of greatest hits. Even if he manages to stumble into a set, Cas has lived for millennia. How the hell is Dean supposed to recognize the place?

His foot slips through something, and he stops and looks down. There’s still nothing there. His heart quickens, and he slides his foot forward again, the tip of his boot disappearing like passing through a curtain. He tugs it back again, but it’s not covered in goo or anything. He looks up, but there’s no door, no waving sheen of fabric, no clear divider. Just more Empty.

“What the hell,” he murmurs to himself. “Let’s see what’s behind door number two.”

He steps through and blinks.

Dean remembers enough of his dreams to know that they don’t always make sense. Sure, some are straightforward, like watching a movie, but others defy the basic rules of reality. Settings blend together, things appear and disappear. No consistent logic. Which is probably why, memory or not, this dream isn’t just one thing. It’s a barn at night that he recognizes, a park bench in a field of snow that he doesn’t. If he turns his head one way there’s a stretching warehouse floor littered with dead bodies – _his_ dead bodies, Dean realizes with a jolt – and if he turns it the other way there he is, very much alive, raking leaves.

These are Cas’s memories.

Dean takes a cautious step forward and stumbles to a stop as everything flickers around him, then resolidifies. When he glances over his shoulder, there’s no black wall or anything, just the bunker library, books piled high in the center and doused with reeking gasoline. He can hear distant echoes in his ears, not the bells anymore but voices overlapping, fading in and out as things shift around him – flashes of Lucifer’s crypt, of Baby, the grey-lit woods of Purgatory and a neon-backlit payphone that means more to Dean than he can put into words. If he closes his eyes, concentrates, he can shape the voices into something distinct. He can hear his voice, calling Cas a baby in a trenchcoat, telling him they’re family, laughing, crying, begging, praying. Sam’s _this is the part where you hug back_ and Metatron’s _you draped yourself in the flag of heaven but ultimately_ and Naomi’s _you don’t even die right, do you?_ Dozens of voices, saying some things he’s heard and some he hasn’t and each one hits Dean right in the chest.

And Cas’s voice. _I prefer trusting_ and _I pulled you out of hell, I can throw you back in_ and _we’re making it up as we go_ and _I love you, I love you, I love you._ And louder than anything, ringing out over the rest, in words that are pure Enochian - and yet Dean can understand them anyway - _Dean Winchester is saved._

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean breathes, and yeah, his voice breaks a little. Because it figures, doesn’t it? Castiel, the angel who rebelled, who has so many memories, is relieving the last twelve years and nothing else. His time on Earth. His time with Dean.

He takes another shaky step forward, towards the barn, because that seems like the thing to do. He tunes the voices out, letting out a watery laugh at a snippet of Cas’s angelic Enochian, that pure screech Dean still remembers finally solidifying into words he can understand, the first words Cas said to him topside. He lets it all fade away into the background, the mostly-empty landscapes echoing with them. He’ll ask about some of them later, but right now…

The memory-echo of wingbeats is so familiar Dean nearly cries. The barn is shaking, rattling with a howling louder than the wind, and Dean hears the muffled voices of him and Bobby inside, the crackling of wood, the shattering of glass as a figure touches down, the outline in the darkness the most familiar thing in the world.

“Grand entrance, Cas?”

The angel startles, and turns. God, he…he looks just like he did just days ago. The Cas Dean had met in that barn – different trenchcoat, different tie, his hair sticking up all over the place like static – that Cas had been otherworldly. Terrifying, even, his blue eyes too-intense and piercing. But this…Cas’s eyes are still intense, still that beautiful, terrifying blue. But everything else is settled. This isn’t an angel the size of the Chrysler builder crammed into a meatsuit. It’s just Cas, his eyes widening with something that looks like horror, mouth gaping as he says, “No, this isn’t…this isn’t how this memory goes, I don’t…you aren’t supposed to-“

“Hey, hey, hey!” Dean surges forward, catching Cas by the shoulder when it looks for a moment like he might topple. He keeps his hand there, holds tight. “Easy there,” he says gently, like he’s soothing a spooked animal. He gives Cas his most winning grin. “You sure know how to make a guy feel welcome.”

“…Dean?”

“It’s me.”

Cas’s hands come up, and then hesitate. Dean takes over, presses Cas’s fingers to the center of his chest. “I’m real,” he says. “Not a memory.”

“I…” Cas looks a little stunned. He runs his hands carefully over Dean’s arms, squints as he examines his face. “Dean, I don’t understand.”

“I took a little soul-walk. Came looking for you. I’m fine!” he adds, when that alarm flares back into Cas’s expression. “Sam and Eileen are keeping my body safe in the real world. I just…” The bravado slips, and Dean lets it. He doesn’t…this feeling isn’t like crying. But it’s close. A little choked, a little weak. “Cas, I…”

“Dean, you don’t-“

“Shut up a minute, okay?” He hopes the words don’t sound harsh, and Cas doesn’t recoil from them. Dean covers Cas’s hand with his own and squeezes. “This is something I gotta say.”

“Dean.”

That’s what a prayer sounds like, Dean thinks distantly. He feels kind of floaty. The only thing solid is Cas’s hand under his. “You’re my best friend, Cas,” he says. “And I gotta start with that because it’s true. No one has ever meant as much to me as you do, maybe not even Sam. Even…even when I was angry, when I thought what you were doing was stupid or selfish or reckless or whatever, the reason I was so angry was because I was scared. I’d lost you before Cas, and every time I do it fucking breaks me. And I never let you see that, so I don’t think you really know how big a deal that was. You’re everything, man.”

Cas’s eyes are huge. His lips are parted. He seems surprised, hopeful, a million little emotions that Dean didn’t think he really could feel, and Dean drops his hand, wraps it around the back of Cas’s neck instead, pulls him close, anchors himself there. His thumb can reach Cas’s cheek, so he strokes it. Presses their foreheads together for a beat. “You didn’t give me a chance,” he breathes. “You said you wanted something you couldn’t have, and then you laid all that shit out for me to see. How much I meant to you, _what_ I meant to you. And I wanted…Cas, I wanted so badly to say something but words…they were so fucking hard, because all I could see was you leaving again. So I’m saying it now, okay? And I don’t care if it’s rushed or awkward or what, because I was supposed to say this days ago, alright?”

He pulls back, enough to see Cas’s face, but he doesn’t let go. He waits until Cas nods, and then says it. “I love you. And yeah I mean that in the family way, but not just like that, I mean it in every way. I want to spend the rest of my life making you happy, and not just because I’m there and you’re there and we both _want_ but don’t get to have. We get to have, Cas. After all this crap, it’s the only thing that makes any sense. So I’m asking you to stay. I’m going to ask you to stay every damn day for the rest of our lives. And I hope you tell me every day that you want to.”

“I want to,” Cas breathes. “Dean, I want to.”

Dean kisses him. It’s not exactly storybook – Dean’s pretty sure the number of people Cas has kissed can be counted on one hand, and he’s kind of a wreck right now himself, so it’s a little clumsy, a little messy, his rough stubble scratching strangely against Cas’s. But then Cas is tilting his head, and Dean adjusts to mirror him, and they slot right together. Like they were built that way.

“Whoa,” is all he can say when they break apart, his lips still parted, still tingling with the fact that _he kissed Cas_. His heart is thundering in his ears, beating a thousand miles a minute, and Cas beams like a ray of freakin’ sunshine. His hands have found their way to Dean’s hair, his cheek, holding him close. “We gotta do that again,” Dean manages lamely, grinning dopily himself and blushing when Cas’s smile widens.

And then it falls. Dean feels Cas’s hands release him almost in slow motion, the angel taking a step back as his brow pinches together. “Dean,” he says, like an apology. There’s longing in his eyes, achingly familiar, and it makes Dean’s heart stutter and his chest squeeze tight. “I can’t go with you.”

“Sure you can.”

“No, I mean.” Cas takes a shuddering breath. He glances back at the barn, then back to Dean. “I want to. I want to more than anything. But the Empty-“

“Don’t worry about the Empty,” Dean says. “It got you, it had you, and now it’s going to give you back.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Cas takes another step away, as if evading hands Dean doesn’t dare use to reach for him. “The amount of power it would take to free me-“

The bells are still ringing, but they’re fading fast, less every minute, and maybe Dean should have waited to do the confession but honestly, he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He’s not wasting anymore time. “Look. I promise I will give you the full story later, but the CliffsNotes? Chuck’s human, Jack sucked up all his god power, and now the Justice League is working together to put the universe back to rights. That sound out there, that ringing? That’s them, right now, closing up shop in the Empty for good. Now, Jack couldn’t spring you because the Empty wouldn’t deal if he did, and we’ve got just enough time to sneak you out of here before whatever magic works gets shut down. But.” And here Dean swallows hard, ignoring the way Cas is gaping, questions clearly on the tip of his tongue. He presses on. “I think we can get you out, Cas. Alright? It…it’s kind of a longshot, but it’s pretty much the only one, otherwise I wouldn’t suggest it.”

“What is it?” Cas sounds wary, but trusting. Always trusting.

Dean’s so going to hate himself for this later. He really, really wants that luxury. “We don’t have the juice to pull an angel out of the Empty,” he says. “None of the players who do are going to play ball for you like that, in the name of keeping the peace. But the spell that let me in, it made a gap big enough for souls. An angel couldn’t slip through it.”

It dawns on Cas before Dean even has to say it. “But a human could.”

“Yeah.” Dean chokes the word out. He searches Cas’s face. The angel seems distracted, still glancing around, this time towards the sound of bells snuffing out one by own. It’s getting almost too faint to hear. “You, uh. You down for that? Because we’re kind of running out of time.” He hesitates. “I know it’s not a great call, but it’s kind of our only-“

“Yes.”

He stops. Cas looks deadly serious, and Dean has to ask. “Really?”

“Yes,” Cas says again. No hesitation.

“There’s no going back this time,” Dean warns, and hates himself for it, like he’s trying to talk Cas out of it. “New world order means no do-overs. This is it. 100%, irreversibly human.”

“I know.” Cas meets his gaze. He’s not fully smiling, but there’s a hint of it on his lips. “How…?”

“You, uh, got your angel blade?”

Even an impression of it will do. He thinks. It slips from Cas’s sleeve easily; he spins it in his palm with the precision of a soldier, offering it out to Dean. “Okay,” Dean says, more to himself than Cas. He takes it, the metal cool against his palm. “Okay.”

He cups the back of Cas’s head, tips it back just a little. His voice shakes, and he does his best to steady it, to sound apologetic and reassuring all in one. “This is probably going to hurt.”

“I know.” Cas’s gaze is unflinching, and Dean takes a breath to steel himself. The cut he makes is careful, as shallow as he dares without risking having to make another pass. Cas shudders when it happens, his eyes fluttering shut, and Dean watches the grace swirl free, slowly at first as it creeps over the edge of the incision, and then faster when Dean brings his fingers to it, coaxing it out. He catches it in his palm, hot and pulsing like a beating heart, white and blue and almost too bright to look at. It’s…beautiful.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dean jolts up, both hands tightening on instinct, one around the weapon and the other around Cas’s grace. For a split second, he thinks that this might be another memory, Meg standing across from them, staring, incredulous. “I gave one hands-off warrant,” it says, and oh. So this is the Empty. It sounds exasperated, in the way that Meg’s voice has always captured so well. “That’s all I asked for. One angel who was absolutely, unequivocally mine.”

“And you claimed him,” Dean says. “Fair and square.” He holds up his fist, grace shining through the gaps in his fingers. “Here he is.” He shakes it towards the Empty. An offering. “Everything angel, you get. But the rest? He’s mine.”

In his periphery, he can see that Cas isn’t looking at the Empty. One hand clutching the slice on his neck, the incision red and angry with the first bubbles of blood, Cas is staring at Dean like those words are benediction.

The Empty’s expression sours further. “And what stops me from keeping the whole package and flinging you back out into the cold?”

“Nothing,” Dean says. “But think about it.” He looks back at Cas, gives him a grin, a reassurance he doesn’t really mean, before meeting the Empty’s eyes. “The last time you had him, everything was out of whack, which meant that when he pissed you off, you could spit him back out again.”

“Your point?”

“You, Jack and co.? You’re making everything right again. Which means that when Cas drives you batty this time, and trust me, he will, you’re going to be stuck with him. Forever.”

“I’ll put him to sleep,” the Empty grits out, but Dean can see it. The flinch. He’s winning.

“Yeah?” he presses. He takes a step forward, uncurling his fist a little, grace still out like an offering. “You really think that’ll keep? The one angel that even God couldn’t keep down, even when he was the only big game in town? Especially now that he knows someone’s waiting for him on the other side?” He flashes his biggest bullshit smile, the one that says ‘I’m adorable and you ain’t got shit.’ “Grace is quiet. Let it sleep. You get the angel; we get the human. Everyone’s happy.”

There’s one more heartbeat of hesitation, one moment that stretches on what feels like forever, where Dean holds his breath and prays.

The Empty rocks back on its heels. “Fine.” It snatches the grace from Dean’s hand, presses it to its chest. “Take the shell and go. Before I change my mind.”

“Yeah, absolutely.” Dean is already nodding, reaching out for Cas as he backs away, tugging the former angel to his side. He glances at Cas, “Hold tight.” Inside himself, he wraps a mental hand around the taunt string and yanks. Hard.

He isn’t sure what happens on the other end. All he sees is the storybook collapsing, Cas’s memories folding in on themselves as suddenly they’re both being pulled, the last lingering bells ringing in Dean’s ears as he gasps and slams back into his body, one arm still wrapped firmly around Cas’s limp form. Sam and Eileen both jump to their feet, but whatever either of them might be about to say is cut off as Cas collapses to the floor, eyes rolling up in his head, blood still bubbling from the slice in his throat. Dean stares down, eyes wide, mouth open, the exhaustion of the spell keeping him rooted, frozen, as shouting and scrambling ensue in a frantic motion to cover the wound. Behind them all, the spell bowl gives one last, lingering crackle, and then sputters out and dies.

***

First, Dean sleeps. Not in his own bed; he recovers enough of his sense by the time Cas’s wound is cleaned, stitched, and bandaged to insist on putting his unconscious body there instead. They don’t exactly have angel healing mojo to work with, but Sam reassures him that Cas will be fine. He just needs to sleep it off.

He looks so small, so fragile with the white gauze around his neck, tucked under Dean’s sheets. So painfully human. Dean stares at him a long while, watches Cas’s chest rise and fall with each breath, and then passes out on the sofa in the Dean Cave. He’s exhausted enough from the spell – not to mention running basically on empty in the days leading up to it – that he’s pretty sure he could sleep for a week.

He doesn’t, although fifty-seven hours feels like it’s probably a personal best, considering he’s not actively dying. He blinks his way slowly to consciousness, joints sore from the awkward position, and then jolts upright when he catches sight of the figure standing at the edge of the couch.

“Relax,” Billie says. Her arms are crossed, her position casual. “I’m not here to reap your boy.”

Dean pulls himself into a more dignified seated position and eyes her warily. “Then why are you here?”

“I wanted to say thank you.”

Dean scoffs. “For what?” It wasn’t like he’d done Billie any favors…basically ever.

She quirked an eyebrow. “Oh, for this and that. Being a good sport and all. Doing something stupid so I didn’t have to.” She examines her nails, a deliberate gesture. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m still all for natural order. But it is somewhat…satisfying to have a score settled, even if you’re not the one who pulls the strings.”

“Nuh-uh,” Dean says, shaking his head. “I didn’t do that for or because of you. I did it for me. For Cas.” He’s certain of it in a way he’s never really been before.

“I know.” Billie smiles. It’s cryptic, as always, and somehow that’s almost comforting. “I’m not God, Dean. I never had that kind of story power, and now nobody does. Even if I did, I’m not a writer. I’m a librarian. My job is to safeguard the stories, that’s all.”

“So why give me the spell?” Dean sits forward, eyes narrowed. “If you’re still Miss ‘Natural Order,’ why set me up to get Cas back?”

“Well, I’ll be honest,” Billie drawls. She seems very pleased with herself, in a way that only sort of pisses Dean off. “Part of it is just to be a little petty. If you’ve got the angel, the Empty doesn’t.”

“He’s not an angel,” Dean says automatically, like a punch to the gut.

Billie ignores him. “And it is a little thrilling to break the rules. I can see why you Winchesters enjoy it so much.” She surveys him, almost disinterested. Like he’s finally not worth her notice, and she’s thrilled about it. “Mostly, I just knew that without him, the rest of this? Not really a story worth telling. For any of us. We do seem to owe him free will, after all. And I for one am not big on debts.”

“So this is it?” Dean asks. “Clean slate?”

“Clean slate.” Billie gives him a pointed look. “No more spells, Dean. If he walks into traffic tomorrow, that’s the end of it. Capiche?”

“Yeah, I capiche.” It’s mostly a grumble, but that’s not Billie’s fault. He’s grateful to her, more than she could ever know. Mostly because Dean doesn’t plan on telling her.

“Good.” Billie nods, apparently satisfied. She turns to go.

“Wait,” Dean says, and she stops. He hesitates. “So, that’s it? You’re all done with…whatever?”

“Mostly,” Billie acknowledges. She tugs on either side of her coat, adjusting it. “Everything in the Empty is back to sleep, including the Empty itself. The power over that realm has been consolidated, taken care of. Heaven and hell just have a few bugs left to work out, but that’ll be done sooner than later. Amara and Jack will probably be down here soon, and then it’ll mostly be me.”

“So you’re, what, the big kahuna now?”

Billie shrugs. “Yes and no. I’m the story keeper. There’ll always be a need for Death. Everything ends. But Amara is still God’s sister, and Jack is still Lucifer’s son. They’re both very powerful beings. Just…not all-powerful. Not anymore.”

“Congrats,” is all Dean can think to say.

“Thank you.” It sounds sincere, he thinks. Billie’s smile even looks real, not edged or anything. “Goodbye, Dean. I expect I’ll see you again. When it’s time.”

“Yeah, and not a minute sooner.”

And then she’s gone, and Dean’s sitting in the room alone. He stands up, stretches, and wanders out into the bunker for a change of clothes and a proper shave.

Miracle had been camped out by the sofa when he woke up, and she refuses to leave Dean’s side when he settles himself in the kitchen, although the latter might have something to do with the ground beef he slips her. He whistles as he makes breakfast burgers, which are really just regular burgers but who cares. He’s in a good mood, relatively speaking, and the vocal cheer covers up the twisting in Dean’s gut, because yeah, there’s always sacrifices with a win like this one. He remembers all his old hopes and fears about Cas being human. He has no idea what Cas is going to say when he wakes up.

Sam seems almost surprised to find him, judging by the “hey!” he lets out when he wanders in. Dean gives a nod of acknowledgement, passing him a burger without hassle and not even pulling a face when Sam goes to the fridge to start loading the thing with veggies. Eileen wanders in a minute after, her expression startled but pleased when she catches sight of Dean. “Morning, sleepyhead,” she signs at him, grin blatantly teasing. He flips her off good-naturedly in return, and she laughs.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Sam says when they all sit down to eat. “I kind of figured…”

Dean gives half a shrug, biting into his burger with a groan. Two days without eating – longer without a proper meal – really is way too long, even if he was sleeping for most of it. He swallows and answers, “I swung by Cas’s room when I got up. He’s still out, but he looks okay. Color’s good. I figured I had time to eat.”

It’s most of the truth: Dean had actually lingered by Cas’s bedside for over an hour, but when there’d been no sign of him stirring, Dean had finally caved to the nauseated, rumbling demands of an empty stomach. He wouldn’t be any good to Cas passed out from hunger.

Sam accepts the answer, and he doesn’t call Dean on calling it ‘Cas’s room.’ Instead, he says, “Eileen and I were planning on heading out again, soon as you were up. Bobby put out a call to us; apparently, there’s a couple hunters who’re still kind of shaken up about the whole ‘God disappeared the planet’ thing. We figured we’d go, get everyone who needs it back on their feet again. Make sure everyone knows we’re here if they need it. No more big, cosmic events.”

“Good,” Dean says. For Eileen’s sake, he doesn’t tease Sam by talking with a mouthful of food. “No, that’s great. Definitely, do that.”

“You sure?” Sam has those soulful ‘I can help’ eyes going. “We can stay if-“

“Nah, I’m fine.” Dean waves him off. “I’ll keep an eye on Cas. I’ll let you know when he wakes up.”

“Okay, great.” Sam shoots a look to Eileen, who nods and stands with him. He claps a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “We’ll see you when we get back, then. Tell Cas hey from us.”

“Will do.”

He watches them leave, hears the distant clang of the bunker doors. He forces himself to stay sitting, to finish the whole burger and let it settle. When he stands, it’s slow and deliberate, not letting himself bolt. Miracle trots by his side, her collar jingling, and she stops when Dean does, on the threshold of his bedroom. Cas has been tucked onto the left side of Dean’s bed – Cas’s side, he’s thought for a while, even if only subconsciously – and he’s turned over in his sleep, no longer on his back but curled up and facing the wall. Dean takes a careful seat on the other side of the bed, watching. He doesn’t miss the irony of the role reversal. How many times has he been the one in the bed, Cas the one watching over his sleep?

He answers some texts: Jody has some advice on filling out that job application and Donna’s sent some kind of rainbow hug sticker gif thing (without prompting, and Dean is going to have words with Sam if this is about his outing. He’s going to tell people. They know him, they know Cas, and if what he hopes is going to happen now happens, they’re going to find out eventually. And he’ll be damned if Sam beats him to the punch. These are his words, his story to tell). Claire has a question about some obscure branch of shapeshifter lore, with a thinly veiled ‘because Cas isn’t answering his texts’ as an explanation. Garth has sent a picture of the kids with the caption ‘Gertie’s first fang!’ The baby werewolf is beaming at the camera to show off the gap in her smile, holding said tooth out in her palm, little Sam and Cas in the playpen behind her. Dean sends Jody a thank you for the help, shoots an answering gif – some blob thing squeezing a heart – to Donna, tells Claire that Cas is fine and will answer her texts later (although he also answers the shapeshifter question, because there’s no sense waiting when he remembers the lore), and cheekily asks Garth how they handle kids and the tooth fairy in his household. It doesn’t take up nearly as much time as it should, and then Dean is reduced to sitting back against the headboard, scrolling idly through his phone, turning his head to check on Cas every thirty seconds. It’s a little pathetic, but Dean thinks he’s entitled.

He keeps the bandage changed and fresh. Cas’s wound is healing pretty well, all things considered. He might have a scar when it’s all over, thin and silvery, proof that he used to be so much more than this fragile human body. Dean kind of wishes he had more scars himself, although not out of some sense of macho vanity like he might have in his younger years. The various healings and resurrections have been awesome in some respects – no permanent nerve damage means no chronic pain that a lot of hunters have by this stage in life – but he doesn’t deserve this fresh body. There’s too much weight to him, too much history.

Rowena eventually does answer his call, and their conversation is short. Hell has been sorted, and she’s still on top, without all the fear and subjugation – aside from the God Squad’s helping hand in reform, she alludes to a consort who has helped a great deal with the adoration part, and Dean pointedly does not ask. She probably won’t even become a demon, the way things are now. She’s still allowed to pop topside, stretch her legs, but she admits they’ll be seeing a lot less of her. “Shame,” she says. “But, then, a ruler does need to make sacrifices. I suppose a kingdom of fawning subjects will just have to do.” It’s playful, and Dean laughs. She seems happy, and it’s good that she finally got something awesome for herself. She promises to keep in touch, and when Dean tells her about Cas – because he can, because he _can tell people now_ – he can almost hear her smirk to accompany the affectionate “about bloody time!” she shoots him. He ends the call a lot lighter than he started it.

But Cas still doesn’t wake up.

Eventually, he caves, picking up the pile of Cas’s clothes and rooting through the pockets. Dean doesn’t know who stripped him and tucked him in in just his boxers (Dean is guessing, because the shoulder peaking out from under the blanket is just bare skin, and there’s no underwear in the clothing pile), but he’d willingly bet it was Eileen. He leaves the shoes at the foot of the bed, twisting the blue and white striped tie around his hand for a minute before setting that aside too. The dress pants and cheap suit jacket – pockets empty – and white button down get placed gingerly in Dean’s laundry basket, along with Cas’s socks, and then Dean picks up the trenchcoat.

From it clatters metal, and Dean stares at the angel blade. He has no idea when or how it manifested, but it’s there, in the middle of his bedroom floor, and finally he picks it up and sets it on the nightstand on top of the tie. The beige fabric he holds in his lap, bunched up in his fists, and at least this time it isn’t covered in blood or goo or any other sign of Cas’s most recent brush with death.

Dean isn’t sure what he expected – love letters? What is this, _The Notebook?_ – but even the trenchcoat pockets are relatively empty. He only finds three things, Cas’s mostly-empty wallet, his cellphone, and a set of car keys. Dean tries to picture the car – a pickup truck, he thinks, because Cas seems to favor them when he has the option, the only exception being that crappy Lincoln Continental Cas loved so much. A flash of retroactive guilt runs through him; he’s pretty sure Cas abandoned it during the Lucifer versus Amara fiasco a couple years back. Should Dean have looked for it, knowing how much it meant to Cas?

He shakes the thought off. He can’t change the past. He can’t change the things he didn’t ask, the times he didn’t think about what Cas wanted. All he can do is change the future, and if when Cas wakes up he wants a fleet of pickup trucks or the ugliest classic car in the world (well. Top ten ugliest, at least) Dean’s gonna make that happen for him. Whatever makes Cas happy.

He doesn’t go snooping through Cas’s phone. The temptation is there, but he’s being invasive enough as it is. He opens it – no password protection, and he’s definitely going to need to have a word with Cas about that – and fucks around just long enough to guess the location of his car based on gps and shit before putting it on the nightstand too. He picks up the keys, letting them clink together in his fist, and hesitates when he stands. The car isn’t far – it’s in Lebanon, walking distance – but Dean isn’t sure he wants to leave Cas’s side.

“Be easier if Sam had done this earlier,” he grumbles to himself, but without ill intent. It’s just a little thing, but Dean wants to do it for Cas. He’s pretty sure everything Cas owns in this world are in that truck, and if Cas is going to be human, he deserves to have that all in one place for him when he wakes up.

He’ll be fast, he promises himself. He writes half a dozen different notes, the first on the pad of paper he keeps in his room and then another five on sticky notes stuck to the wall and the mirror and anywhere else he thinks Cas might look, promising that he’ll be back in a few minutes, saying that he loves Cas, that by the time he wakes up Dean’ll probably already be on his way home. Still, it feels like running a marathon to get into town, and Dean is so grateful that Sam is gone because if he saw, Dean would never hear the end of it.

He finds the truck without difficulty. There’s a parking ticket on it, but that’s fine. They’ll take care of that later. He climbs in and shuts the door, taking a moment to just breathe. It smells like Cas. Then he starts the engine and brings it home. The bunker’s main garage is packed, but there’s still room in an adjacent lot, and Dean parks it there before he goes through the vehicle, looking for Cas’s stuff. There’s a small hunter’s kit tucked under one of the seats – fake IDs, a couple weapons, some basic magic ingredients, the kind of excess stuff when angel mojo or Cas’s blade weren’t enough to do a job – but it’s what’s in the glove compartment that brings Dean up short. There’s personal items, trinkets he thinks Cas must have picked up from different people and places, but mostly there’s photographs. On top of the stack is a creased one of him and Cas in Dodge City, and it’s enough to make Dean’s breath catch in his throat. There’s more, just a handful, of Cas and Jack and Sam and other friends and family, but Dean’s in more of them than he isn’t, and in most of them he’s looking at Cas like a sunflower towards the sun. Or vice versa. No wonder Sam knew. Hell, no wonder that’s been the go-to joke for every villain (and a couple allies) they’ve ever faced. It was written all over their faces.

He gathers everything up carefully in his lap, staring down at the spoils. There’s one big thing still missing, and Dean doesn’t know if Cas still doesn’t understand the significance of a mixtape, but at the very least he has to know that a present like that…

_You keep those._

Carefully, because if he’s wrong Dean honestly thinks this might crush him, Dean flips on the radio. The cassette deck cranks to life, and Robert Plant’s voice crashes like thunder around the truck’s cab, crooning, “ _So if you wake up with the sunrise-“_

Dean shuts the radio off and carefully ejects the cassette. His heart is pounding in his chest, but oddly, it’s not terrifying. He smiles to himself, and climbs out of the truck.

In his haste to get back to Cas, he nearly trips himself on the steps into the war room, and then nearly trips again when he screeches to a halt, crushing the bundle of Cas’s things to his chest as his mouth falls open. It’s a deer-in-headlights look, but Dean thinks he’s allowed in this instance.

Amara turns at the sound of his skidding footsteps, separated from him by the war room table, and smiles. “Sorry to drop in unannounced,” she says. “You haven’t fixed the warding.”

“Right.” Dean takes a couple careful steps forward, setting his haul down on the table. He doesn’t really want it between him and Amara, but he’s completely at a loss and he feels safer with his hands free. “We’ve, uh. Been kind of busy.”

“I’ve heard.” Amara hesitates. She looks good, Dean thinks absently. Not actually terrifying. Sort of a lady realtor, PTA mom sort of vibe with the pantsuit thing. But he doesn’t feel that pull towards her he used to, that fucked up bond from the Mark of Cain that overwrote his actual feelings with twisted ones he couldn’t control, and that’s nothing but a relief.

“Why are you here?” It’s careful. She seems a lot more laid back than Dean’s ever seen her, but pissing off a powerhouse isn’t something he wants to do. Not when they just got out of this mess.

She smiles wryly, like she’s embarrassed, which is definitely a new one. “I wanted to see you.”

“Oh.”

She wrings her hands together. “I’m sort of…testing a theory. Something my brother told me.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Oh?” He’s feeling eloquent today, apparently.

“Another lie, it seems. I suspected as much, but I had to be sure.” She doesn’t seem particularly angry about it. Dean can relate. It’s pretty much how he’s come to feel about all of Chuck’s lies and manipulations. It’s not worth it.

“Do I get to ask?” he ventures, and Amara even laughs.

“Our bond,” she says. She spreads her hands. “I don’t really…feel it, anymore. I mean, I can understand why I did. Why I wanted you. You were the best humanity had to offer. The love I could feel at your core…when my brother absorbed me, I could see your whole story through his eyes. You have a way of making the non-human fall in love with you, Dean. And with the world, through you.”

“Uh…” Dean can feel his cheeks burning. “Thank you?” He’s never really thought about it before, but hadn’t Cas said the same? And if he’s being honest, what he had with Crowley…with Benny…they never held a candle to what he has with Cas, but still. Kind of the same thing.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I was so…so jealous, so consumed-“

“Hey.” Dean holds his hands up. It might not be a good idea to interrupt a goddess, but she doesn’t seem to mind. “That wasn’t you. It was Chuck. He manipulated all of us. So, no sweat. We’re good.”

Amara nods. Her smile turns sly. “Anyway, I never had your heart, and I was never going to, was I?” Her gaze flicks towards the hall, towards where Dean knows – hopes – Cas is still resting. “Out of all of us, I think he deserves it the most. Maybe because he never coveted it like the rest of us. He just wanted to watch you _be._ ”

Yeah, Dean’s pretty sure he’s crimson in the face. He’s definitely never had a conversation with God’s sister like this one. His and Amara’s conversations have rarely been so calm, and never so amiable. He coughs in a weak attempt to cover, but he knows he’s sounds like a sap when he admits, “Even if he didn’t deserve it, I’d probably still pick him. Always.” Add that to the list of things he needs to tell Cas every day for the rest of their lives. “So,” he says, desperate to change the subject. “If that’s all…?”

“It was.”

“Where to now? Back to heaven? Or…wherever…”

Amara shrugs. “I’m done. Everything’s sorted. Jack is with his mother, but I expect he’ll be back soon. My nephew is an interesting child.” Her voice is fond. “I’ve enjoyed getting to know him.”

“Yeah, well, that’s Jack for you.”

“But I think I’ll spend a bit more time on Earth for the moment.” Amara tilts her head thoughtfully, looking off into the distance. “There’s so many places I haven’t seen yet. And with the state of my powers…”

“Your powers?”

She looks at him. “A lot of it went back into the fabric of creation. We all did the same. I’m still the divine, don’t get me wrong, but now…I feel so much closer to humanity. I want to be more of a part of it.” Another hesitation. “I…spent a great deal of time with your mother in heaven, when we were working there. The family resemblance is…uncanny. Your souls are very much alike.” There’s a different kind of fondness in her voice, and it turns more teasing when she adds, “And she certainly seems to enjoy my company more than you ever did.”

That is. Huh. That is something Dean is not going to examine too closely, _ever_. Although honestly, good for Mom. He clears his throat. “She, uh. I heard through the grapevine that everyone up there is staying put?”

Amara nods, looking almost regretful. “We discussed it at length. Ultimately…the course of this world was fixed. We might have freed it from that, but so far along the path…it would have been a very difficult adjustment for the souls, and for the fabric of the universe. And choosing who got to come back and who should stay…” She studied Dean, her expression careful. “Are you angry?”

Dean gave it an honest moment’s consideration before he admitted, “No. Disappointed, hell yeah, but angry? No. I guess I’m lucky I got back as much as I did.” He hesitates. “Are they happy?”

“It’s heaven,” Amara admits, but she’s one of the few people Dean knows who says it like he would: not an automatic ‘of course,’ but an ‘as much as they can be.’ “Improvements or no, it will never be Earth. But they’re content.”

“I guess that’s all I can really ask for at this point, huh?” It’s weird, not having a say. It’s been years since Dean felt like he wasn’t fighting against cosmic forces, things bigger than him. His family, his friends, they’re something to mourn. But they’re also a reminder about what he has left.

“Is there anything you’d like me to tell your mother?” Amara asks. “When I see her next, I mean. I’m sure I’ll be revisiting heaven before you.”

“Yeah.” Dean nods. “Tell her I love her, okay? And I’m sorry. For everyone still up there. And I’ll see them on the slow way ‘round.” It’s all he really can say. He doubts, somehow, that he’s headed for hell, ‘soul touched’ or otherwise. He doubts Jack would stand for that ‘rule,’ and he’s pretty sure he’s led a good life. He’s tried, at any rate, and hopefully that’s what matters.

“I will,” Amara promises. She smiles. “I’ve kept you long enough, haven’t I? He’ll be waking soon.”

“Yeah?”

“I still have enough power left to feel it. His dreams are…beautiful.” She doesn’t actually wink at Dean, but the aura of the gesture is still there. She doesn’t disappear like Billie had; instead, she takes the stairs, and Dean watches her until the bunker door clangs shut behind her. He has no idea if he’ll ever see her again, but he thinks he could be cool with it either way. The dynamics are different now. Things change, and that’s okay.

He gathers Cas’s stuff back up and heads in the direction of his room. Cas is still asleep, but Dean can sort of see what Amara meant; he’s shifting now, like the pull of sleep is losing its hold on him. Dean carefully arranges the pile of pictures, trinkets, and the mixtape on his dresser, then sits back down on the bed, pulling his legs up so he can move closer to Cas, watching the smoothness of sleep wrinkle as Cas’s eyelids squint open a fraction, a mostly-incoherent “wha?” spilling from his lax lips.

It’s really fucking cute, actually, and Dean can’t resist. He bends low, and murmurs in Cas’s ear, “I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition.” It’s soft, and in his own voice. Not mocking. Entirely too sappy.

A slow smile spreads over Cas’s face. Eyes still closed, Cas rumbles out a rough, “Hello, Dean.”

The words slot into Dean’s chest, like something he hadn’t known he was missing. His own voice is rough, although not with sleep, when he responds. “’Morning, sunshine. How you feeling?”

Cas’s hand goes to his throat, gingerly feeling the bandage. He opens his eyes, blinking sleep out of them, and squints at the ceiling. “I feel…fuzzy.”

“How much do you remember?”

Cas’s eyes, no less brilliant blue for lack of grace, turn on him. “Everything,” he says softly. “I remember everything.” He groans as he sits upright in bed, and Dean helps him wriggle until he’s scooted back enough to lean against the headboard. He lets his hands linger on Cas’s shoulder, his firm chest, just a moment longer than strictly necessary. He doesn’t want to push his luck. Not until they’ve talked. Cas lets out a grunt of discontent, scrubbing at his face. “Last time I was human, I was not functional this early without coffee.”

Dean doesn’t tell him that it’s really not very early at all. Instead, he says, “I can go grab a cup if you want.”

He turns to do just that, but Cas’s hand darts out, seizing his arm. He certainly doesn’t look bleary-eyed when he stares at Dean. More like he can still see into Dean’s soul and is searching for something. “It was all real, wasn’t it? It wasn’t a dream?”

A nervous chuckle escapes Dean without his permission. “Ah…you’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that.”

“I was in the Empty. You saved me.”

“You’re worth saving.” Every day. He’s going to say it every day.

Cas hesitates, like he doesn’t quite believe it, and Dean promises himself again. “You…you told me you loved me too,” Cas says slowly. “That you wanted to be with me.”

“Batting a thousand with the memory there, Cas.”

It earns Dean a tiny squint of confusion, a wrinkle in Cas’s forehead that he cherishes, before Cas shakes it off, touching his throat and the bandage there again. “I’m human?”

That…deflates Dean. “Yeah,” he sighs. “That’s the only way I could get you out.”

“And you’re…” Cas hesitates. “Are you okay with that?”

Dean blinks. Then he stares. “Am _I_ okay with that?” he repeats.

“As an angel, my powers-“

“Cas.” Dean stops him, because the doubt in Cas’s voice is like a fucking knife. Carefully, deliberately, he says, “I, _we,_ don’t need an angel, Cas. We just needed you. I needed you. And it doesn’t matter to me if you can’t use your mojo or heal people or whatever. You’re family. You matter. You.”

It takes a minute, but the intensity in Cas’s eyes slowly dims into something almost sheepish. He tips his head back against the wall, snorting a little. “I believe I told Jack something similar.”

“Hey, it’s good advice.” Dean pauses, then reaches for Cas’s hand where it’s fallen onto the mattress, covering it with his, lacing their fingers together a little. “Are _you_ okay with this?” When Cas looks down at their fingers with a frown, he scrambles to add, “Being human, I mean.” He swallows guiltily, “I mean, I know…I know that your grace was a part of you, Cas, and as far as I can tell you never wanted to be human before. You always talked about it like it was messy and gross and…” He looks down. “I never wanted to be the person who took that away from you. The person who dragged you down to my level.”

“If only I should be so lucky.”

Dean meets Cas’s eyes, confused, and Cas is smiling. “Dean, I was _never_ a good angel. But you? You’re a _good man_. And that’s something worthy of aspiring too.” He sighs, and tilts his head back again, staring at the ceiling. “Yes, humanity is messy and it can be somewhat gross, but it’s also beautiful. You… _we_ feel so much. We grow, we change. And I don’t think I’ve wanted to be an angel for a very long time. I don’t owe anything to heaven, and I wanted to fall. But you needed me.”

“I still need you,” Dean says dumbly. He squeezes Cas’s hand. “But just here, Cas. Just like this. I don’t need the bells and whistles. Just you.”

“I’m starting to get that,” Cas says. “And I need you, want you, too.” He lets his eyes fall shut, and Dean wonders if he’s about to say something profound again and is cut off by a low snore. He laughs, and goes to get Cas that coffee.

“To be clear,” he says when he gets back and Cas is halfway through his mug, “I want to date you. Like, so hard. And kiss you again, definitely, and, you know. Anything else you might be interested in.” He’s blushing a little, but he’s pretty sure Cas can’t see it through the steam and his half-closed eyes.

“I did get that impression,” Cas says wryly, the assbutt, and god does Dean love him. He takes another gulp of coffee and adds, “I’d like to have intercourse with you as well.” Dean chokes and splutters, and Cas continues, “As well as the other things you mentioned. That sounds agreeable.”

“You- you’re agreeable,” Dean manages, in the least effective comeback ever. Cas smirks against the rim of his coffee, and it’s really not fair that his lips are so pink and tempting. Not to mention the fact that he’s _still shirtless_ , and Dean gets to trace his eyes over the curve of his pecs and memorize his moles and drool over the Enochian tattooing on his ribs. “Whatever,” Dean grumps, without really meaning it. “Can’t believe I’m in love with an asshole.” The effect is definitely ruined by his smile.

He fills Cas in on all the details he missed, about Chuck’s ending and Jack and co. fixing the universe and nixing the story and basically giving up a huge chunk of god-power to do it. He’s not sure what level nephilim Jack will be when he gets back to the bunker, but he kind of doubts it’ll be more than he started with. Might even be less. Cas hums along, seemingly pleased with that state of affairs, and opens his eyes fully when Dean carefully puts out that he’s planning on quitting hunting.

“Really?” he asks. He sounds surprised, and Dean gives a half-hearted shrug.

“Kind of put in the hours,” he says. “Hell, technically I’ve been doing this, what, four decades, give or take?” Cas makes a soft sound of acknowledgement. “Kind of think I’ve earned a retirement.”

“You like helping people,” Cas points out, but it’s not argumentative, just curious.

“Yeah, I do,” Dean agrees. He’s not disputing that. “But with Sam and Eileen planning on taking over the home front and all, plus the apocalypse world hunters and everyone else, there’s more than enough people fighting the good fight. I’m not…I’m not saying I want to leave the community or anything,” he adds. “I’m just…ready to put down the shotgun, that’s all.” He’s got the mechanic application still, but that’s just one option. He’s been thinking; he’s not actually half bad in the kitchen, and the bunker is nice and all, but it’s no Roadhouse. It’d be a way to stay connected with the people he loves, to still be helping out that community, while not necessarily being a part of it. Doing his own thing. A thing he loves.

But they’re all just speculations at this point, so he doesn’t share them with Cas just yet. Instead, he asks, “What about you? I mean, is that what you want to do? Keep hunting?”

Cas thinks on that a minute, swirling his cup thoughtfully. “I think,” he says eventually, “I’d like to keep bees.”

“Bees?”

Cas nods, very seriously. “I think I would enjoy that, very much.”

“Okay, Sherlock,” Dean laughs. “We can have bees.”

“Thank you.” Like Dean’s done him a favor. Like it’s a hardship for Dean to fit Cas into his life, his future, when all Dean can see is a house with a white picket fence and beehives in the backyard, coming home and licking honey teasingly off of Cas’s fingers. It says how far gone he is on Cas that it’s not even that a dirty fantasy, just a sweet one. They’ll figure it out, he thinks. Whatever they end up doing, they’ll be doing it together. Side by side.

A jingle starts from down the hallway, and Cas frowns as Dean laughs. “By the way,” he tells the ex-angel, whose narrowed eyes fix on the doorway as Miracle finally decides to make a reappearance from wherever she’s been hiding, “we totally got a dog.”

Miracle nearly ruins the first impression by leaping onto the bed with a force that almost spills Cas’s coffee; he manages to keep the mug upright, thus saving the relationship as she comes nosing over, sniffing him curiously. Cas pets her, and gradually breaks into a smile again. “What’s her name?”

“Miracle,” Dean tells him, and snorts at the eyebrow Cas pulls. “It’s a long story.” One he’s not going to tell right now, thank you very much. He gets out of bed and gestures around. “So, uh, I brought your car back. Figured you’d want your stuff.”

Cas stretches to set his mostly-empty coffee cup on the nightstand – giving Dean a mouthwatering view of his back and shoulder muscles flexing in the process – and then ambles over to the dresser while Dean tries not to ogle Cas in just white boxers. Oh yeah, he’s gone in _every_ way on this one. Cas spreads the pictures out, smiling and blushing faintly. He taps his fingers on the mixtape gently, affectionately, and casts a look over his shoulder. “I think I get it now.”

“Yeah?” Dean croaks. Miracle nudges him with her nose, and he nudges back with a sock-clad foot. No way is a dog going to make fun of him for this. Not when Cas looks so at home.

He nods. “It’s a very good gift, Dean. I’m sorry it took me so long.”

“It’s all good, Cas,” Dean manages. “We got there in the end.”

Cas nods in agreement and stretches absently, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck, and Dean becomes all too aware of how dry his mouth is. He coughs. “I, uh, I’m going to head to the kitchen. You’re probably hungry, right? Human and all? Yeah.” He nearly trips over Miracle, walking backwards towards the door. “I put your clothes in the basket, but you can borrow some of mine. You know. Until we can get you…yeah.” He just catches Cas’s raised eyebrows before he makes it out the door. “What?” he says to Miracle’s definitely judging eyes. “He’s been human all of two hours, I’m not jumping him before he’s had a chance to settle in.”

The eyes don’t stop. Dean glowers, gritting his teeth a little as he adjusts his pants and wills them to stop feeling so tight.

It’s a battle he almost wins by the time he’s made it to the kitchen, scrambled eggs going with a mix of seasoning he hopes Cas will like (and PB&J in case he doesn’t, because Sam had left that helpful tip in his texts a couple hours ago). It’s a battle he loses completely the instant Cas walks into the kitchen dressed in one of Dean’s Led Zeppelin t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants, low enough on his hips that Dean can see the waistband of what he’s pretty sure are his Scooby-Doo boxers, not Cas’s white ones. Cas’s hair is sticking up like somebody’s raked their fingers through it, he has a few days’ worth of stubble across his face, and he’s holding the empty coffee mug loosely, smiling down at one of the post-it notes in his hand. Dean’s a total goner even before Cas crowds him, reaching around to put his cup on the counter behind him, patting the sticky note firmly to Dean’s chest as he leans in for a kiss. Dean shudders, his lips parting for Cas when he licks into Dean’s mouth, still tasting like coffee. The stubble doesn’t feel strange anymore, but Dean is also hit with the strongest urge to shave Cas himself, a craving for the intimacy of holding a blade so close to delicate skin, Cas trusting Dean to keep him safe. “I love you too,” Cas murmurs when he breaks the kiss, and Dean nearly whines, weak in the knees in the least dignified of ways.

“Eggs,” he manages, gesturing weakly with the spatula. “I should…pay attention. Don’t want them to burn.”

Cas tilts his head, smirking a little, and then takes a step back, giving Dean room to breathe again. The confidence is fucking sexy on him, and considering everything they’ve been through in the last couple days, it’s really not fair.

He gets the eggs off the stove safely, and Cas eats them _and_ the PB&J, so Dean’s going to call that a win. Even if Cas licking jelly from his fingers and moaning more than strictly necessary for what are really pretty basic breakfast foods is doing things to him that he told himself it wouldn’t. The sticky note with his scrawled _I love you_ stays on his chest like a claiming. He takes a deep breath and keeps his feet tucked under his seat, even when Cas’s bare foot reaches out to brush against his slipper-covered one.

“Dean,” Cas says, and he’s frowning just slightly. “Am I doing this wrong?”

“What?”

“We agreed to pursue a relationship.”

“Uh, yes?”

“And you indicated specifically that you wanted sex to be a part of that relationship.”

Well, Cas had been a little more specific than Dean, but he’s not about to argue that point, because it’s true. “Well, yeah, but-“

“You are aware we have twelves years of sexual tension to make up for, correct?”

Dean chokes on his eggs. “Cas-“

Across the table, Cas blinks. He sits back. “I’m being too forward. I apologize. I’m new at this.”

“No!” Dean says hastily. He swallows, takes a gulp of orange juice, sets the glass down a little too hard. “No, you’re fine, it’s just…” He takes a minute, sorting himself out so his words make sense, and then says, “I want that, definitely, yeah. But like you said, you’re new at this. _We’re_ new at this. I don’t have a clue what I’m doing, and I don’t want to overwhelm you…Why are you laughing?”

“I’m not,” Cas says, but he’s definitely grinning. He sets his hands on the table, reaching out for Dean’s. His fingers are rougher than Dean really expected of an angelic vessel, bearing the same kinds of calluses Dean has. Soldier’s hands. “If you’re concerned about having sexual relations with a man-“

“Kind of not?” Dean admits. “I mean, it’s not like I’ve never thought about it before. I know the logistics. And I’m definitely bi, and it ain’t exactly like you’re totally a guy anyway, right?”

Cas gives that a nod of acknowledgement. “Gender is different for angels, and I would say that while my presentation does skew towards male, I do not fully identify that way, no.”

“There you go,” Dean gives a little sweeping gesture, then lets himself take Cas’s hand again, because that’s actually really nice, just holding it. “So no, that’s not it.” He sighs.

“Then what?”

Dean doesn’t know if he can put it into words. He tries anyway, though. For Cas. “You…I want to give you everything, Cas. You deserve the best. And you’re brand new as a human. Angels feel things differently, right? Food, sex, all of it.” He doesn’t want to assume again, but just because Cas could love him as an angel doesn’t negate the fact that they’re not built quite the same as humans.

Cas confirms it for him. “That is not inaccurate.”

Dean swallows. “So this is kind of big, right? And like we said earlier, human bodies are kind of weird and messy and I just…I don’t want to do this and have it be weird for you. I want you to like it. And I barely know how to do that at all, much less for you when you’re…” he waves a hand over Cas again, gesturing to his newly human body.

“Dean,” Cas says, very slowly, like Dean is very dumb and also very adorable. “I’ve had sex before. As a human.”

Oh. _Oh._ “Right,” he says, and feels incredibly stupid. “April.”

Cas shrugs. The corners of his lips twist. “It’s not…I don’t know that I would call it a good memory. I am…uncomfortable, with the way she used me. But the point does stand. I have been human before, and I am familiar with how intercourse feels. And I would immensely prefer making new memories of it with you.”

Dean’s throat closes, and he has to fight a minute for air. “Jesus, Cas,” he says. “You sure know how to sweet-talk a fella, don’t ya?”

Cas gives him a gorgeous half-smile. “I’m certainly endeavoring to learn.”

There really isn’t that much table between them, anyway, Dean decides. He braces himself up on it, and Cas leans in when he does, letting out a soft, pleased sound when Dean’s fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck and-

Miracle lets out a series of irritated barks, and Dean breaks away from Cas with a groan as the dog dances over to her food bowl pointedly. Right. He does have some responsibilities. “You’re worse than Sam, you know that?” he tells her, but he stands up to oblige. “You better not be conning me,” he warns. “When’s the last time Sam fed you, huh?”

“You know,” Cas says carefully, picking up his fork again to return to his eggs, “I’m not your brother. Or a dog.”

Dean pauses halfway through pouring the kibble to give Cas his best ‘wtf’ look. “Uh, I know that, Cas. Like, I really, _really_ know that.” Weird potion incident aside, Dean is very much not into that, thank you very much. And it’s _still_ weird to him that there are people out there who, having read the _Supernatural_ books, came to the conclusion that he had to be fucking his brother. Like, he knows Cas isn’t in them – at least, not the officially published ones – but come on. It’s not like he hasn’t had chemistry with plenty of people in the past.

He swears as the kibble, still pouring, spills over the sides of the bowl and onto his foot, scrambling to sweep it up while Miracle takes full advantage of his mistake. Behind him, Cas clarifies, “That’s not what I meant. I just…” He sighs. “You’re a caretaker, Dean. It’s what you do.”

Dean frowns and turns to face him, leaving Miracle to lick the excess kibble off the floor. “So?”

“ _So_ , I don’t want to be that to you.” Cas’s face isn’t playful anymore. It’s drawn and concerned. He picks at his eggs, scraping his fork through the remnants on the plate. “I appreciate you looking out for me, wanting to take care of me, treat me right. It is an attractive quality, and one I will admit I’m drawn to given my…my history.” He pauses, and Dean thinks about Meg in a mental hospital and Daphne with Emmanuel. Cas shakes himself, and finishes, “But I don’t want to be another responsibility for you, Dean. I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Okay, first of all,” Dean says, “you’re not a burden. Alright? Second, this?” He gestures back and forth between them. “This is completely different from all the other shit I’ve been responsible for. That was all handed to me, in some cases literally. I didn’t ask for it, but I had to do it. And mostly, I’m okay with that now.” Sam, Jack, the various ends of the world…Dean’s taken care of them all and done alright. But he’s ready for a change. He paces back across the room, setting one hand on the table. “I asked for this, Cas. Like, multiple times, in actual words. And you’re right. I like taking care of people. I want to take care of you. But I want to be taken care of too sometimes, you know? And you’ve done that before, or tried to, whether I let you or not. So maybe, this time, we can take care of each other, huh? Does that sound alright?”

“ _Yes,”_ Cas says, and then, “I’m going to kiss you now,” and he _does._ It’s not sexy and passionate like before. It’s chaste, but so full of love and affection that Dean thinks he might actually break down crying from this one. He doesn’t, but his eyes do feel a little wet when they separate. He blinks fast, just in case.

“We’re so totally having sex later,” he says. Cas laughs.

“I look forward to it,” he says, and finishes his plate.

***

Touching Cas is honestly kind of awesome, Dean decides. And he doesn’t even mean that in the sexy way, although he is definitely looking forward to that later. But really, he’s always been pretty tactile in a way that he’s had to tamp down on hard, because that was the kind of Real Man that John Winchester was (which meant that was the kind of Real Man that Dean had to be), and now he can just…indulge himself. After Cas has done the dishes – against Dean’s protests – and Miracle has eaten, they take her out to do her business and get a little exercise, and while she’s running around in the patch of trees behind the bunker Dean just wraps an arm around Cas’s waist and lets it sit there, and Cas leans into his side in return. The sun is starting to set again, casting everything in that orange-blue twilight glow, and it frames Cas like a painting, lighting up his eyes in a way that makes Dean’s breath catch all over again.

And when they get back inside, Cas drops into a seat in the library and pulls out his phone to answer his texts, and while Miracle takes up her increasingly familiar spot under the table, Dean leans over Cas, one hand on his shoulder, his thumb stroking the back of Cas’s neck as he laughs at Claire’s most recent “WHERE WERE YOU, ASSHOLE??!!!?!” – complete with a couple skull and knife emojis for good measure, apparently, because apparently that’s just how Cas and Claire text – and then laughs again when Cas starts typing “dead, briefly” as his opener. “You’re just going to freak her out more,” he points out, squeezing the meat of Cas’s shoulder gently as, proving his point, a series of chimes echo as Claire’s “ _wtf”_ and “are you okay???” and “spill, now” messages pop up on screen. He leaves Cas to it, circling the table to the rhythmic clicking sound of Cas typing, and runs his hand over the smooth wood, staring at the letters.

After a second, he pulls his pocketknife out and flicks it open, offering it handle first towards Cas. “You should, uh. Put your name on too.”

Cas looks up at him in surprise, his gaze flickering between the table, the knife, and Dean’s face. He sets down his phone. “You want me to add my name?”

“Yeah?” Dean tries to make it sound casual, like there isn’t a massive lump in his throat. “It’s a family thing, isn’t it? I’ll have Jack do it when he gets back too.”

Slowly, Cas takes the knife, studying the space. “You all wrote your initials,” he says. “I don’t have…”

“Whatever you want, Cas,” Dean tells him. “It’s all good.”

Cas nods absently, bracing himself up on the chair as he adjusts his grip on the knife and bends over, one forearm on the wood as he carves into it in precise block letters – three of them, “C-A-S,” right below Sam’s two. He brushes the shavings away and straightens up, surveying the work.

Dean coughs quietly. “You could, uh. You know. Put a ‘W’ on there. If you wanted.”

Cas quirks an eyebrow at him. “Are you proposing to me?”

“God, no,” Dean says, too quickly. He blushes. “Trust me, Cas, when I propose, you’ll know.” When, not if. Because that’s happening. Dean is gonna put a ring on it, just like that song Cas loves (and he secretly does too, because like Swayze, Beyonce always gets a pass), but in the meantime… “You’re still a Winchester, Cas. You’ve more than earned it. Not that you had to earn it,” he adds sharply, “just…”

Cas smiles at him, and yeah, that’s probably never going to stop making Dean melt. He bends back over the table and scratches in the four lines that make up the “W,” right in the space below his name, and then digs in the point firmly into a period, as if for emphasis. Dean can’t help himself; he leans over Cas, covering the hand with the knife, and when Cas relinquishes it he turns the period into a little, slightly-lopsided heart. Cheesy, but it feels appropriate.

“There you go,” he says, straightening up and closing the blade. He stows it back in his pocket and runs his hand over the table. “Yeah.” Looks good. Looks right.

“Hmm,” Cas hums. He rubs his fingers against his throat, over the bandage, his forehead pinching.

“Does it hurt?” Dean asks.

Cas shakes his head. “Itches a little.”

“Can I take a look?”

Cas tilts his chin back and lets Dean peel away the gauze. There’s really no need for it anymore, he thinks; the wound’s definitely stopped bleeding, and he knows from experience that after the first couple days it’s usually best to leave it unwrapped. It’ll almost certainly scar, but aside from that it’s healing well. Dean’s no medical expert, but he does know how to use Google, and he’s pretty sure Chuck’s plot armor had always helped them heal better and faster than usual. Cas probably has a little while left before they can be sure, but Sam’s work is good, and the stitches should dissolve in a couple more days.

“Looks good,” Dean says, chucking the used bandages into the garbage. “Just make sure to keep it washed, and it should be fine. Don’t let it soak, though. And don’t pick at it.” The last part comes out a little exasperated, as Cas’s fingers do just that.

Cas lowers his hand sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“You’re fine.” Dean gets a last look at it just to be sure, not because it lets him cup Cas’s neck, swiping his thumb over the line of Cas’s throat, feeling the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.

“I should text Sam,” he murmurs. “Promised I’d do it when you woke up, but-“

“You were distracted?”

“Yeah.”

Personal space has always been an issue for them, first a legitimate issue because Cas didn’t recognize social cues and Dean was a mess of masculine hyper-performance, and then not so much an issue as just a quirk of their dynamic, a tendency to lean too close, to reach out for each other on instinct. Claire had mentioned once, in a text, that angels didn’t just hear directed prayers, but could react to general longing. Maybe that was a part of it; Cas could feel how badly Dean wanted him close, reacting subconsciously, placing himself there, within reach, on the off chance that Dean wanted to take.

He wants that so badly, and it doesn’t feel like an issue anymore. Dean tugs Cas a little, and Cas steps easily into Dean’s personal space – all the way into his personal space, so close their chests are brushing together with every breath, further proof that Cas is here and human, standing in front of Dean as flesh and blood. Dean had loved an angel, but he can have the man, and when he kisses Cas again it’s soft and sweet and promising the world.

He groans at the interruption, not from Miracle this time but from a knock at the bunker door. Dean lets his forehead fall against Cas’s with a light thunk, growling his displeasure, and Cas laughs, kissing him lightly again before stepping away. “Later,” he reminds Dean, and looks curiously towards the door. Even Miracle has perked her head up in interest. “Are we expecting anyone?”

“Dunno,” Dean says. “Sam’s got a key, but I kind of doubt he’ll be back for a few days. Everyone else typically calls first.” He crosses the room, down the steps out of the library and up the war room’s metal staircase, glancing back at Cas, who comes to the threshold to watch. A second, less confident knock sounds when Dean’s almost to the door, and he grunts, “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming, hang on.” He tugs it open, one hand braced towards his pocket as almost an afterthought – wouldn’t be the first time he’d answered the door to a monster, however unlikely that probability is – and then blinks, hand falling to his side again, the other still on the edge of the door as he takes in Jack, hovering nervously on the doorstep, wringing his hands like he’s missed curfew or something.

“Hey,” Dean says. “What’s with the front door routine? Figured you’d just fly in when you were done.” He pauses, and then fills the gap when Jack doesn’t. “How’s your mom?”

“Good,” Jack manages. He bobs his head a little, almost distracted. No. Guilty. “She’s, uh. She’s good. Happy. In heaven. She really likes the changes we made. She said it was nice before, but it’s better now.”

“Super,” Dean says. He takes a pointed step back, swinging the door open a little wider. “So, are you coming in, or…?”

“You definitely still want me?” Jack asks, and oh god, he’s worse than Miracle and Sam combined with the puppy dog eyes. Dean groans.

“Yes, kid, we definitely still want you,” he tells Jack. He makes the ‘kid’ sound a little more like ‘dumbass’ than it probably should, but at least he doesn’t say it. “Look, I know I’ve been rough on you. Like, a lot. And I’m sorry. But you’re family. And family comes home. It’s how we do. So I’m gonna keep telling you that until it sticks, alright?” It’s hardly a beautiful speech, but Dean’s had more heart-to-hearts this week than he’s had…maybe ever, and he’s ready to give it a rest. “Now get in here before the mosquitos do.”

“Right.” Jack lurches over the threshold like a TV vampire who’s been invited in. “I just wasn’t sure, with everything done, and Cas-“

He stops short, and _stares_ and for the love of…well, for the love of Jack, actually, didn’t anyone tell the kid about his dad? Dean snorts and claps a hand on Jack’s shoulder as Jack stares down, over the railing, to where Cas is standing below. “About that,” Dean says. “Kinda did it myself. Figured it was about time, right?”

“ _Cas,_ ” Jack breathes. He’s clearly still got some mojo left because he doesn’t even bother rushing down the stairs; two steps towards the rail and then he poofs, wings fluttering, down to the bottom a few feet away, all but ricocheting into Cas, who catches him in a tight hug. Dean latches the door so that it locks, then takes the human way down, watching the way Cas closes his eyes and tucks his cheek against Jack’s head as his son buries his face in Cas’s neck, arms so tight around Cas’s waist that he looks close to locking himself there. Cas’s grip around Jack’s shoulders is almost as strong, and they’re still hugging when Dean reaches them.

“What am I, chopped liver?” he asks, projecting gruffness on purpose, and Jack jumps back, mouth gaping like he’s actually speechless.

“How?” is what he finally manages, looking back and forth between them like this is some kind of magic trick Dean’s conjured up for his benefit. Dean shrugs.

“Kind of figured someone would have told you,” he says. “Aren’t you supposed to be omnipotent?”

“I’m not…I gave that up.” Jack frowns. “Who…did people know about this?”

“Oh, just a couple,” Dean tells him, ticking them off his fingers like an asshole. “Billie. The Empty. Amara. You know, the whole God Squad.” He shrugs again. “Maybe they figured you already knew.”

“I hope you haven’t suffered,” Cas murmurs, reaching out to cradle Jack’s cheek. It’s an intimate gesture, parental in execution, and when Cas drops his hand Jack rocks on his heels, like he’s already feeling the loss. “They should have told you.”

“I wanted you back,” Jack says. He sounds helpless, in a way that cuts to Dean’s core. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, that Jack is basically a toddler – a toddler with angel mojo and the body and brain of a twenty-something, give or take, but still a toddler in a lot of ways. It’s hard to forget it when he looks so lost. “I asked,” he says, “but the Empty wouldn’t allow it, and I had…I had to get everyone on board, I _needed_ -“

“I know,” Cas soothes him. “I understand.”

“And…you’re human, now?” Jack frowns, reaching two fingers out towards the neat row of stitches on Cas’s neck. Cas catches his hand and shakes his head.

“Leave it,” he says softly, glancing towards Dean. “I’d like to remember. But yes. I’m human now.”

Jack lowers his hand. “And that’s what you want?”

“I’m _happy,_ ” Cas says, stressing the word, and it makes Jack smile in clear relief. He hugs Cas again, shorter this time, and then takes a step back.

“So what now?” he asks, glancing between them. “Where’s Sam? Is he out on a case?”

“He’s out rounding up the apocalypse hunters,” Dean tells him. “No case.” He has no idea if Jack wants to be a hunter or what, but he’s definitely going to leave that task to Sammy if he does, and Sam can foist him off on someone else. Donna, maybe. She likes the kid, and if anyone can balance his enthusiasm with the practicality needed for the job, it’s her. Claire’d probably do it, but that team up sounds like a disaster waiting to happen, two different brands of chaos colliding. Funny to picture, but Dean hopes like hell they get their shit together first.

He takes the knife back out and flips it to Jack as he answers the other half of the kid’s question. “What happens next is you take this and stick your name on the table, and then we get something to eat. I’m thinking pizza.”

Jack’s eyes light up as he clutches the knife to his chest. He doesn’t question Dean, just bolts for the library, and Dean snorts out a laugh. Cas gives him a look. “What? He’s a kid. I’m not gonna make a production out of it.”

Cas shakes his head, his smile small but fond. Dean smacks a kiss to his cheek and fishes Cas’s phone out of his pocket, just because he can, before dialing the number for pizza.

Cas disappears into the kitchen for napkins when it arrives, and Dean drops the boxes on the war room table before calling up to the library, “Food’s here!” When Jack doesn’t reappear right away, Dean hops the steps up to the library, poking his head in. “Jack?”

He’s still standing over the table, staring down at it. He’s got one hand in Miracle’s fur, petting her while her tail thumps against his leg. The other hand is on the table, out of sight, and the knife is off to the side. Dean approaches cautiously. “Jack? You good?”

Jack’s fingers are on Mary’s initials, the “MW” right above where he’s carved his own name. “She deserves better than heaven,” he says softly. “And I-“

“Hey,” Dean interrupts him. He shoves his hands in his pockets on habit, then pulls them out again and deliberately squeezes Jack’s shoulder. “You’re right, she does. And you’re going to carry that a long time. Hell, _I’m_ going to carry that a long time.” Forgiveness isn’t easy, and Dean has no doubts that he’ll get mad again, that some days it’ll be hard to look at his son. “But eventually you gotta let it go. She’s got Amara up there, right?” At Jack’s surprised look, he shrugs, “She stopped by. Kind of mentioned it.”

“So, does that make Amara my aunt or my grandmoth-“

“Gonna stop you right there,” Dean says, half-laughing. Yeah, still weird. “My point is, you fixed what you could. You did what you thought was right.”

Jacks nods. “All the souls where they belong. I made sure Kevin and the others made it specifically.”

Dean’s throat tightens a little at that. “Good.”

“I wanted to do more,” Jack admitted. “Mary. My mom. But the universe needs to be balanced. That many souls coming back would…”

“Would be a mess,” Dean finishes. “I got that.” He pats Jack’s shoulder and then releases. “It’s over. Now you get to be a kid for a bit, huh? Do kid things.”

“Yes.” Jacks punctuates it with a nod. He doesn’t brighten all the way, but some of the weight leaves him. “I would like that.”

“See?” Dean grins at him. “It’s gonna be great.” He shoos Jack towards the war room. “Now come on, before the pizza gets cold.”

He lingers a moment as Jack bounds off in that direction, picking up the pocketknife and examining what Jack’s carved. It takes him aback for a couple reasons – firstly because Jack seems to have finally gotten the hang of the “K” going the right way two times over. He’s gone the Cas route, spelling out his name in slightly shaky but enthusiastic strokes. Beneath that, there’s a firm “K,” an uncertain stroke of a dash, and a much shallower “W.” Dean digs the knife in, so that the dash and the final letter match all the rest in depth, and when he slips the pocketknife back into his pocket and turns around, he sees that Jack is watching him.

“I wanted to be clear that it was me,” he says softly. “I’m still…my mom was a Kline. And I didn’t want to put JW, even though I feel like a Winchester.” He hesitates. “I met John. When we were doing our work. I saw his soul, and I could see he did love you and Sam, but…”

There’s a lot left unsaid on the last word, and Dean swallows hard. He doesn’t make Jack say it, and he doesn’t ask if there was enough. If, in spite of everything, his father somehow made it upstairs. It’s not an answer he wants to hear either way. “You did good, kid,” is what he finally says, and claps Jack on the back as he passes, guiding him out with him into the war room. “Now, let’s eat.”

Cas returns with the napkins, and they all sit down for the meal. Dean scoots his chair close to Cas’s, enough that he can reach out and touch him every so often, bumping their shoulders together and stealing Cas’s toppings because it’s cute when Cas glares. They’re close to done when Jack seems to register the change, and he frowns, squinting and tilting his head so much like Cas that Dean nearly nudges him again to point it out. Jack looks back and forth between them, brow furrowing deeper. “You’re…different.”

“We are,” Cas agrees.

“Congrats, kid,” Dean teases. “You’ve got about a million parents, and two of them finally got their heads out of their asses and got together.”

“Why would your heads-“

Cas interrupts that train of thought, “Dean and I are a couple now.”

Jack blinks. “Oh.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”

He hesitates. “I…thought you already were.”

Dean stares at him, floored, as beside him, Cas chokes on a bite of his pizza. “Why, uh-“ Dean coughs himself, thumping Cas’s back to help him a little. He clears his throat. “What makes you say that?” Yeah, he’s pretty sure anyone with common sense and _eyes_ could see how he and Cas felt, but he’s not confident Jack has both of those in spades just yet. Not to mention, he’s pretty sure the pining vibes were overwhelming, and that doesn’t exactly translate to ‘relationship.’

Jack shrugs. “After that case with Harper, you said that love could be crazy sometimes. You sounded like you knew what you were talking about. And you were sad when Cas was dead and happy when I brought him back. It didn’t seem…it seemed like different happy and sad than other times. I asked Sam, and he said that sometimes people who are in love don’t talk about it, and that you have to let them tell you when you’re ready.”

“Did he, now?” Dean is so having words with his little brother when he gets back.

Jack gives a very serious nod. He’s also definitely sneaking Miracle bits of hamburger off the pizza, which proves he’s just as much Dean’s kid as Cas’s. “Also, before I was born, I know I reached out to Cas, and I could feel how much he loved you.”

“Aww,” Dean gives Cas a shit-eating grin, and Cas narrows his eyes back at him. “What?”

Cas shakes his head, rolling his eyes, and addresses Jack. “Well, all that aside, Dean and I were not in a relationship. We were both very, very stupid.” In his deadpan, it’s hilarious, and Dean laughs, even though Jack just tilts his head and cracks a smile.

“And you’re not stupid now?”

Dean snorts. “Well…”

Cas shoots him another look. “I suppose we’ll see. But we have decided to communicate with each other.”

“Which means you’re dating.”

“In this case, that would be accurate.”

Jack nods in understanding. It’s very serious and dignified, befitting a nephilim-slash-very-briefly-God, and it’s kind of ruined by the half-finished pizza on his plate and the splotches of sauce on his white shirt, in spite of the napkins. “That’s good.”

“Yeah, it is,” Dean agrees. He takes another bite of his slice and chews before adding, “You still sleep, right? I mean, how…” He waves a hand, “how de-powered are you, exactly?”

Jack considers that. “I still sleep,” he decides. “The power I pulled from God is gone. I put that back into the universe. But I still have most of my own power. Maybe a little less.”

“It’ll come back,” Cas says. Dean glances at him, and Cas shrugs. “Most likely. Nephilim gain power as they grow. He’ll be powerful-“

“Just not all-powerful,” Jack finishes. He chews on his pizza thoughtfully, and speaks with his mouth full. “Some of it can be useful. But I still want to be a kid. At least for a while.”

“You deserve as much,” Cas tells him. It’s sweet.

They take a little longer to finish up dinner, the conversation turning to milder topics, and then Dean glances at his watch. “It’s getting pretty late. We should probably hit the sack.” He points at Cas. “You still have healing to do.”

“I’m fine,” Cas grumbles good-naturedly, but he gets up when Dean does.

Dean looks to Jack and gestures to the pizza boxes. “You good to clean up here when you’re done?”

Jack nods. “Are you going to have sex now?”

Dean chokes on air. “One,” he says, holding up a finger when the coughing passes, “we’re never going to talk about that. Ever.” Someone is going to have to give Jack the Talk for real eventually, and there’s a lot of parenting things Dean is willing to do, but that one is going to go to Sam or Cas. “Two-“ He doesn’t really have a two, actually, and he fumbles lamely and comes up with, “Finish your pizza. Watch some TV. Do…do kid stuff.”

“Alright.” Jack goes back to his pizza and Dean gets the hell out of there. Facing his kid as God? Piece of cake. Facing his kid asking about his sex life? Dean’s been to hell. He thinks he might prefer that. Miracle lifts her head curiously when he goes, and then thumps down happily on the floor again when Jack pets her. Cas follows Dean’s lead.

But when Dean gets to his bedroom, he finds his door shut rather abruptly behind him, and he definitely doesn’t squeak in surprise at finding himself suddenly boxed in against it. He can feel the jacket with Cas’s handprint at his back, but that’s much less important than the intensity of Cas’s expression, his eyes bright and sly and his lips quirked into a smile as he stares Dean down. “It is an important question,” Cas says, and how the fuck does his voice get even deeper? Seriously, Dean’s heard Jimmy Novak speak, and the man wasn’t exactly a chain-smoker, so what the hell does Cas have going on with those vocal cords? The depth of it hits in primal parts of Dean’s brain as Cas tilts his head, eyebrows raised. “We did say ‘later,’ after all.”

“If you make a ‘pizza man’ joke I swear to god-“

It’s all Dean manages, because Cas’s fingers curl possessively around his belt, tugging him forward by it until there’s scant inches of space between them. Dean’s cock is definitely awake and perking up at the contact, and suddenly breathing is a little difficult, much less forming words. Cas barely has a hand on him, and Dean already feels pinned. He wouldn’t call it a bad thing. “That wouldn’t be appropriate,” Cas rumbles and _fuck,_ his hand is tantalizingly close to Dean’s swelling cock as he unbuckles Dean’s belt easily, sliding it through the belt loops with a resounding snap than has Dean swallowing a keen, his head thunking back against the wooden door. “I don’t intend to put you over my knee tonight. Or vice versa.”

Oh god. He’s going to kill Dean. Forget from sex, Dean’s going to die from sheer arousal, his jeans constricting painfully as his cock fights to tent the stiff material. Dean’s never had a partner he’d be willing to let do something like that to him – not for lack of wanting – but _Cas,_ Dean would let Cas do anything he wanted and would probably beg for more. He swallows and manages, “Uh, next time?”

Cas blinks, raising his eyebrows, but there’s nothing teasing in his smile when he murmurs, “We’ll talk about it first. Right now…” And then his hand is on Dean, dropping the belt to the floor in favor of cupping Dean’s crotch, squeezing the bulge, and Dean goes weak in the knees, fumbling backwards for something to hold onto. He manages to find the door handle and his jacket, and neither has the purchase he really needs.

“Hang…hang on,” he pants. His cock lets out a throb of protest as Cas lets go, taking a step back, and Dean fights for breath. He feels completely disheveled, despite the fact that Cas hasn’t even really _done_ anything to him. It doesn’t help that Cas is standing there, head cocked and frowning, still in Dean’s clothes and not looking half as affected as Dean feels.

When Dean’s collected himself enough to stand, he pushes off from the door, hands splayed a little in case he needs the balance. “Okay,” he says, mostly to himself.

Cas looks hesitant. “Dean?”

“Can we…can we sit down?”

Cas drops to the edge of the bed without hesitation, and Dean sits next to him, pulling one knee up onto the mattress so he can turn towards Cas. “So. Not that that wasn’t hot,” Dean says, “because it was. But, uh. What was that?”

“I was initiating sexual advances?” Like earlier, Cas sounds suddenly uncertain of it. “Was that wrong?”

“Not wrong,” Dean assures him. “Really, _really_ not wrong.” A nervous chuckle escapes him, and he runs his fingers back through his hair. “Just…not what I was expecting?”

“What were you expecting?”

“Well, for one thing, I figured you’d be a little less…enthusiastic?” At the face Cas pulls, Dean winces. “That came out wrong. Um. I just didn’t have you pegged as the take-charge type in bed, that’s all. It caught me off guard.”

“Do you not like that?”

“Well, I didn’t say that.” Another nervous laugh, and Dean grips the edge of the mattress just to keep himself from fidgeting. Dean’s never exactly had a problem being dominated in bed. It’s the safest place for it to happen, and he _likes_ someone with a firm hand making him feel good, for a change. He likes feeling desirable, and likes that being a good thing for once.

Cas stares at the floor. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips. “Historically I’m…used to following my partner’s lead. I just…earlier, you seemed to respond well to my advances, and I wanted…” He huffs out a breath, sounding frustrated. “When the stakes are high, I’m not comfortable being a leader. But I _like_ being in control. I like the thought of pinning you down, making you accept whatever I give you. Making you feel good, because you deserve to feel good, and you powerless to do anything but ask me for more.”

Dean’s cock had flagged, but those words jolt right through him, shooting him back to full mast, and he has to clear his throat in order for his words to not come out as a whine of need. “That…that sounds awesome, actually.”

“Then I don’t see the problem.”

What _is_ the problem, exactly? That Dean feels out of his element? That this is _Cas,_ and that means it’s important, monumental, even? Dean had kind of expected to be showing Cas the ropes, but if Cas wants to drive… “You’re sure that’s what you want? You’re not doing it because you think I expect it or…”

The look Cas gives him is briefly unimpressed, and morphs into something smoldering that sends heat into the pit of Dean’s stomach. “I would like to take care of you, Dean. If you’ll let me.”

Dean can’t stop the whine this time, and his voice shakes when he manages, “Yeah, yeah, okay, Cas. Anything you want.” He’s about ready to slide to his knees from Cas’s expression alone, and nearly does when Cas cups his cheek, the gesture so tender that Dean has to close his eyes against the tears pricking in them.

“That’s what I want,” Cas says, low and sweet. “You’re still going to have to teach me, Dean. We’ll be learning together.” It’s somewhere between the hard domination and Cas’s soft uncertainty, and it’s perfect. Dean nods without opening his eyes, nods eagerly because _yes_. This is what he wants too.

“You’re so beautiful,” Cas murmurs, and his thumb traces over Dean’s lips, pushing on the lower one until they part for him. “I crafted every inch of this body. Every molecule of you is made with my love. Can you feel it?”

With Cas’s hand on his face and Dean’s eyes closed, he thinks he can. He’s suddenly aware of his body in a way he rarely is, the pounding of his heart and the slight vibrations in his skin. He feels warm all over, and he nods.

“Good boy,” Cas says, and Dean moans. It startles them both, and Dean’s eyes pop open to see Cas’s equally wide. “Um. Is that alright?”

“Good, Cas,” Dean breathes. “That’s good.” So good. Dean’s gonna do everything he can to make Cas say it again.

Cas’s expression softens, and his voice is a low rumble when he murmurs, “Tell me what you want, Dean. Tell me what would make you happy.”

“Whatever you want, man.”

Cas’s hand goes firm, and he grips Dean’s jaw. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s solid, unyielding, like Cas’s voice when he growls, “That’s not what I asked.”

_Shit_. Dean’s hard enough in his jeans to pound nails. The zip digs into his boxer-covered cock until Dean thinks it might break or burst, but he doesn’t dare adjust himself. “I…I want…” His throat tightens, and tears prick in the corner of his eyes again. He’s not good with words. “I…”

“Shh,” Cas releases his jaw in favor of running the backs of his fingers tenderly over Dean’s cheeks. “It’s alright, Dean. Can you show me?”

Dean hesitates, and then nods, and it’s so much easier to fold to his knees on the floor in front of Cas. His legs feel awkward under him and he shuffles a little, bracing his hands carefully on Cas’s thighs until they part for him. He looks up at Cas and wets his lips. “This. I…I want this.”

Cas looks surprised, but it’s not a disappointed look. He smiles and uses the hand on Dean to draw him up high on his knees, bending down to kiss him before pulling away. “Is this how you want me?”

“Uh…actually…” Dean tugs at Cas’s hips gently, until Cas scoots more towards the edge of the bed. He wiggles in a little closer, until he’s properly bracketed by Cas’s thighs. He can feel the weight of him pressing against his sides, even through the thin fabric of Cas’s borrowed sweats, and Dean undoes the drawstring with shaking hands as Cas watches, not lifting a finger to help. Dean rucks them down a little and yeah, those are his Scooby Doo boxers (his favorites, because he’s got a few, the purple ones with Shaggy and Scooby on them) hugging Cas’s cock in the weirdest combination of comical and arousing. He doesn’t look more than half-hard, but that’s more than okay. Dean can work with that.

He leans forward, only to be stopped by Cas’s hand in his hair, tugging him back. He tilts his head up, confused, and Cas pets through his hair affectionately. “I need you to tell me, first.”

“What?”

“It seems our problem, Dean, has always been miscommunication. I think you can agree with that?”

Dean would agree with pretty much anything Cas said right now, but through the fog clouding his thoughts with want, he manages to give an honest nod.

“We’re going to work on that. For example, so we’re very clear, I’m going to tell you that I would like to have at least one orgasm tonight, and I’d like to make you come too.” The words should be clinical, but they _aren’t_ , and Dean’s cock gives another anguished throb against the confines of his jeans. Cas continues, “I don’t particularly care how it happens, because I love you, and I trust you, and it would make me _very_ happy if you decided for us.”

Dean is actually speechless. He opens his mouth and then closes it again, and it takes a few tries before he can get any sort of sound to come out of it. “Uh…”

Cas cups his chin, tilts his head up. “Would you like that?”

Dean nods.

“Words, Dean,” Cas admonishes gently.

Right. “I want that,” Dean says. “Yes. Absolutely. Uh…”

“Tell me what you want to do to me, Dean.”

“I want…” Dean clears his throat. He feels like he’s shaking apart at the seams, that it’s only Cas’s hand holding him together. “I want to suck you.”

“Good. Keep going.”

“I want to get you worked up first,” Dean breathes. “I want you hard, all the way, before I pull out your cock, and when I do, I don’t want to put it in my mouth right away. I want to make you want it, show you I can do it right first.”

“How?”

He’s never done this, but he’s seen porn, and he knows what he likes done to him. “Want to kiss it. Get it wet with my tongue. See if it jumps when I trace the veins, when I tongue under the head.” Cas shivers, his grip tightening. Emboldened, Dean presses, “Then I’d take you in my mouth. Just the tip first, to make sure I can take it. Wanna make it good for you. I don’t know if I can deep throat but we’re gonna try. Work my way down nice and slow, see how much I can take. If any doesn’t fit I’ll use my hand, jack you in time with the way I suck you down, until you’re ready to come because it feels so good.” He can do that. He can absolutely do that.

Finally, Cas looks properly wrecked. His pupils are blown and from the look of it, Dean’s not going to have to tease him much to get him fully hard. His voice shakes a little when he asks, “I assume you have lube?”

Dean wordlessly reaches for the nightstand and hands Cas the bottle.

“What about condoms?”

“Do we need them?”

“This time,” Cas says. “I don’t know…”

Dean gets it. He can’t remember the last time he got tested for something like that and he doubts Cas ever has. They’re both human now. Better safe than sorry. He fishes a strip out and shuts the nightstand while Cas checks dates, because of course he does, and then drops them next to the lube. When he turns back, he traces the arc of Dean’s cheekbone with his thumb. “And when I’m ready,” he murmurs, “do you want me to come?”

“Y-yeah.” So much it hurts.

“In your mouth?”

“No.” Dean shakes his head frantically. Not with the condom, not if he can’t- “On me. On my face. Want you to mark me up, make me yours.”

“ _Dean_.” Cas hauls him up for another kiss, then shoves him back to his knees. Dean doesn’t waste time; he grips Cas’s thighs and noses into his crotch, his breath puffing hot and wet against the fabric of Cas’s boxers. Cas’s cock is rising steadily, a wet spot forming at the top, and Dean sucks at the spot until Cas’s thighs are quivering against him, tense under his hands. “Good boy,” Cas groans, and Dean moans with the praise. “You feel so good.”

“Love you,” Dean breathes. Cas’s cock twitches at the words, through the boxers, the fabric damn and clinging, giving Dean the whole fucking outline of him, giving Cas more friction with every shift. Dean mouths desperately at the base, at Cas’s balls, and manages to gasp out, “Want you so fucking much.”

“You can- you can have me, Dean, _please_.”

With fumbling fingers, Dean pulls down the elastic so Cas’s cock can spring free, smacking up against his stomach. It’s bigger than he expected, not massive but definitely at least average, so _thick_ and red and pulsing, drooling at the tip. Deans mouth waters, and he vaguely hears a ripping sound, blinking dumbly as Cas nudges something into his fingers. He looks down at the condom packet and understands what Cas wants him to do, taking a moment to tuck the waistband of the boxers under Cas’s balls before he tears the foil packet open, gripping Cas’s cock at the base and rolling the rubber down over his length, a familiar action in reverse. So far, so good.

He glances up at Cas to check how’s he’s doing, and the ex-angel looks a little dazed himself. His hand has fallen onto his thigh but when Dean nuzzles it, he rubs his fingers against Dean’s cheek, and then lets out a startled sound when Dean sucks the thumb into his mouth, wrapping his lips tight around it. Cas lets out a shaky “ _Oh,”_ pressing the digit in deeper, rubbing the pad of it against Dean’s tongue, and Dean closes his eyes and sucks hard for a moment before pulling off with a pop. He shuffles forward a little, taking a moment to grimace and adjust himself in his jeans, giving in enough to pop the button and tug down the zip, relieving some of the pressure before he takes Cas’s cock in hand again, pulling it away from his stomach. The first lick to the rubber has him pulling a face – it’s not nasty, but not great – and then melting when Cas starts petting at his hair and face again. “Whenever you’re ready, Dean. Show me how good you can be for me.”

The words steel something in him, and Dean licks a long stripe up the underside of Cas’s cock, taking the time to trace back along the vein, then up under the head again, toying with the frenulum (is that what it’s called?) because when he does, the tremor wracks Cas’s entire body and he has to hunch over, his hands hard against the back of Dean’s head. He pants, and Dean grins, pressing teasing kisses to the head, sucking at it just a little as he gets the hang of it. He’s had a threesome before, and of course cocks are going to touch – as a demon, he hadn’t even cared, had definitely done some grinding on Crowley solely for the various triplets’ benefit – but this is his first time really being so up close and personal with one that isn’t his own. It’s…it’s kind of awesome, actually, and Dean rewards himself for this discovery by opening his mouth and taking the head of Cas’s cock onto his tongue.

Almost immediately, Cas’s hips jerk forward, and Dean coughs a little at the unexpectedness. Cas jolts back, an apology already tumbling out of his mouth, but Dean just squeezes Cas’s thighs and does it again, getting his lips wrapped properly around the head as he pins Cas down just a little, just to keep him from moving. He gets a feel for it, bobbing shallowly, testing the way it stretches his lips, his jaw, listening to the way Cas bites down hard on his fist, sounds of pleasure still spilling past his lips. Dean groans in appreciation, and Cas’s hips twitch, but he stays still.

“Gotta hear you, Cas,” he says when he pulls off for a moment, looking up at Cas through hooded eyes. “Want to hear how good I am for you, make sure I’m doing this right.”

Slowly, Cas lowers his fist and nods. Dean goes back down, taking Cas back into his mouth, working his way up and down the shaft. He can’t fit as much as he wants, but that doesn’t seem to matter; he has a fist wrapped around the base, pumping the pre-slicked rubber as he bobs his head, working his tongue with as much finesse as he can manage. He’s rewarded with Cas grasping his shoulders, hunching over him and panting out sounds of pleasure, groaning “ _yes,_ Dean _”_ and “oh _god_ ” and “ _please_ ” and “good boy, _good boy”_ as Dean takes him as deep as he can, wincing when the head of Cas’s cock hits the back of his throat and he gags, pulling off for a moment before he dives back in.

He can’t get Cas in deep enough to swallow properly, to let him feel it, but he makes up for it by adjusting the angle, letting his mouth get sloppy with spit as the head of Cas’s cock rubs against his soft palate, Cas grunting with every stroke. His balls are drawing up tight, and Dean feels it when his cock hardens that slightest bit more, pulling off as Cas pushes at his shoulders, both of them fumbling to get the condom off in time, Cas stripping his cock as Dean babbles, “Gonna practice so hard, Cas, gonna keep trying until I can take the whole fucking thing. You’d like that, right? Fucking my throat until I choke on it, make me gag on your cock, knowing I love it, knowing I’d do anything to make you come,” and Cas chants his name with increasing urgency until he gasps and groans and spills, stripes of white coating Dean’s cheeks, painting over his lips and eyelashes. Dean closes his eyes in time, but he still shivers with pleasure at the feeling, the knowledge that Cas is marking him up in the most primal way possible.

He hears it when Cas’s breathing evens out again, and opens his eyes. Through the white on his lashes, he can see the blue of Cas’s eyes, bright and wide and dumbstruck. His thumb comes up to Dean’s cheek again, and he rubs it against the skin, spreading his seed against it. Dean fights a groan, grinding the heel of his hand down against his cock, licking his lips without thinking and groaning again because he can taste latex and _Cas_.

There’s a moment of Cas rummaging, the sound of fabric, and then Cas is cleaning Dean’s face off carefully, wiping the cum from his cheeks. When Dean can open his eyes again, he whines, because Cas is shirtless now, Dean’s Led Zeppelin t-shirt discarded as a rag into the hamper, and both of those details make him throb in his jeans. “Fuck,” he pants, and lets his head fall against Cas’s thigh, pressing his cheek into it while he fights for breath. He just sucked his first cock. He just sucked his first cock and it was _awesome_.

“That was good, right?” he asks, and he doesn’t need to see it to hear Cas’s smile.

“So good,” Cas tells him. “You were so good for me.” He nudges his foot towards Dean’s crotch, brushing his toes over the bulge carefully. “Should we take care of this now?”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, a little dreamily, his hips twitching up, humping into the touch. He feels really light, kind of floaty. It’s tempting just to rut against Cas’s foot until he comes, without bothering to even take his cock out, but then the pressure disappears. Dean whines, and Cas shushes him, tugging Dean up onto the bed and laying him down against the pillows. He straddles Dean’s waist, blinking down at him curiously.

“Is this okay?”

“’S good.” He stretches out a hand, and Cas takes the hint, leaning down to kiss Dean, parting his lips so Dean can lick into his mouth. His soft, bare cock rubs against Dean’s still-clothed and very much hard one, and that’s good too, a nice bit of friction on his neglected erection. “Can I fuck you?” he mumbles, and feels Cas smile against his mouth.

“I’d like that.”

“You gonna make me tell you how?”

“If you’d like.”

Dean flips them over, so Cas is the one against the bed. It’s a heady power – as an angel, Dean couldn’t move Cas unless Cas wanted to be moved, and even as a human he’s clearly strong. Which means Cas is _letting_ Dean handle him like this, that he wants this as much as Dean does. He presses another kiss to Cas’s lips. “Rather give you the play by play, if that’s alright.”

“Please.”

Dean rubs his nose against Cas’s cheek, tracing down a series of light kisses along his neck. Cas shivers when Dean kisses his pulse point, and Cas’s fingers tangle in his hair, anchoring him there, so Dean sucks a hickey for good measure, sucking and biting at the skin until it well up nice and dark. “Mine,” he murmurs. “You’re mine, Cas, and everyone’s gonna know about it.”

“Yours,” Cas agrees easily. His nails scratch lightly against Dean’s scalp, the gesture soft but possessive. “Let me see you, Dean.”

“I’m right here.”

“I mean-“ Cas shoves himself up on one elbow, gripping Dean’s shoulder and shoving gently. Dean gets the hint, shrugging out of his flannel and then his shirt, shoving them over the side of the bed. He looks down, both of them half naked, in time to watch Cas fit his hand over Dean’s shoulder, where his handprint used to be. His eyes flit to Dean’s face and then catch, and Dean’s breath settles back in his lungs as they watch each other silently. Dean’s had intimate sex before. This is something else entirely.

“Hey,” he says, because it seems appropriate, because he wants to hear the response.

Cas smiles. “Hello, Dean.” It doesn’t matter if he gets the joke, or if he just wants to say it. Not when he looks so damn happy about it. He traces his fingertips down Dean’s collarbone, over the anti-possession symbol, coming to a stop over Dean’s heart. He lays his palm flat, the way he always did as an angel, and there’s no glow, but Dean’s ears ring with the sound of healing. “I’d like to finish undressing you,” Cas says softly. “Is that alright?”

“Yeah.” The word shakes out of Dean’s mouth. “Yeah, go for it.” He’s already straining out of his underwear, visible through the open fly of his jeans. He’s ready for more skin.

Cas takes a second first to finish kicking off the rest of his clothes. It’s not showy, but it lets Dean stare, drinking in the lean, strong muscles of his thighs, the cut of his hips. He doesn’t have a six-pack or anything, but when Dean sets a hand on his stomach, under the softness he can feel how firm it is, and Cas’s soft cock twitches, trying valiantly to rise again.

“Gotta get you an anti-possession tattoo.” Dean’s mostly thinking aloud. He brushes his thumb over Cas’s hipbone. “Here, maybe. Let me suck on it when I go down on you.” Because he meant it, he’s going to get so good at sucking cock. He’s always been told he had cock-sucking lips. Cas is going to reap _all_ the benefits.

Cas groans. “You will be the death of me,” he rumbles affectionately.

Dean grins up at him. “And what a way to go, huh?”

“No,” Cas says softly, and it’s so sweet he’s going to give Dean cavities. “Not for a very long time, at least.”

“Shut up,” Dean mumbles roughly, because his eyes are definitely watering again at that. “Take my pants off.”

“As you wish.”

Dean doesn’t have time to question if it’s a _Princess Bride_ reference or not – it could be, he’s had Cas sit through it at least twice for movie night, because Dean fucking loves that film – before Cas is kneading his ass and Dean has to choke down just how much he likes that. Cas makes a production out of it, not showing off but _savoring_ , his fingers slow in dragging the rough denim over the curve of Dean’s ass and down his thighs. His boxers aren’t anything fancy, not even goofy cartoon ones, but the gray cotton-polyester blend might as well be satiny lace for the hunger Cas stares with, his tongue wetting his lips again like he’s thinking about having a taste. Dean’s cock shows enthusiasm for that idea by throbbing and drooling and making a break for the waistband, and at this rate Dean’s gonna be wetter than if he had a cunt down there, just from how _intense_ Cas is. Cas strokes just two fingers over the tent, like he doesn’t get how obscene that is, like it’s fucking fascinating to watch the fabric stretch tighter as Dean’s cock responses with _need_. Dean’s balls are tight and aching, and he has to fumble a hand down, tugging on them through the cotton just for a little relief, trying not to pant at the way every touch right now is like a live wire going straight to his core.

“Beautiful,” Cas says again, and then Dean is nearly sobbing with relief as Cas pulls his boxers down to his knees. Dean takes them the rest of the way, flinging them across the room in his haste to just be naked with Cas, already. He gasps, eyes slamming shut when Cas’s hand curls around him unexpectedly, squeezing both their cocks together, and Dean has to force himself to look down and then force himself not to come at the sight of both their erections, his straining and nearly purple at the head and Cas’s only half-hard but getting harder, pressed together in the former angel’s grip, his callouses rubbing and so, _so_ good.

“Fuck,” he croaks, and Cas makes a hum of agreement. Dean practically tackles him back to the bed, and he can taste Cas’s laughter when he crushes their lips together, rutting his hips down against Cas’s desperately, both slick with precum enough that there’s a gorgeous slide.

“Next time,” Dean starts, and has to stop and start over when his voice breaks. “Next time I want you to fuck me but right now I need…I need…”

“I know.” Cas’s voice sounds like it’s dropped another octave, so low Dean can feel it in his _chest_. Cas’s hand cups the base of Dean’s neck, not even squeezing, but Dean’s ready to drop just from the touch. “You need to get me ready for your cock.”

Dean swears again, fumbling blindly for the lube. He finds it, nearly snapping the cap off entirely in his haste, and probably pouring way too much over his fingers. Is there such thing as too much lube? He doesn’t think so; he’s only done this to himself once or twice, and once or twice when there was a girl who wanted to try anal, but he’s pretty sure the slicker the better. He sits back, and Cas doesn’t need any encouragement to part his thighs, hips tipped up invitingly. With his clean hand, Dean pauses, grabbing the extra pillow and nudging Cas until he can prop it under his hips. That’s definitely a thing he’s seen. Should make this easier.

He swallows hard as he presses the pad of the first finger against Cas’s hole, circling it gently. Cas moans, and his legs fall even wider, and Dean takes that as a sign of encouragement. “Gonna put it in now,” he murmurs. “Just relax for me, sweetheart.”

There’s only a little resistance when he pushes the tip in, dipping it in and out so they both can get a feel for it. Cas is so hot inside, so tight Dean’s almost afraid he’s hurting him, even as his cock begs to be where his finger is. “Feel…feel alright?” he manages.

“So good,” Cas groans. “Keep going.”

Dean does, wiggling his finger deeper, pumping it in and out carefully and circling, tugging gently at the rim. He’s not even trying for Cas’s prostate yet, but Cas seems to like it anyway. The first time Dean had stuck his fingers up his ass it had felt weird before it felt good, but either Cas likes weird or it just feels good, because the little pants and grunts he’s making are pure pleasure.

He makes a noise of complaint when Dean pulls out to add more lube, and Dean shushes him by squeezing his thigh. “Gonna give you a second one, okay?”

“Please.” Somehow, Cas makes it sound like a command instead of a plea, and Dean presses in with two. There’s more resistance, so he keeps it shallow at first, gradually working deeper as Cas loosens up around him, his hole stretching as Dean spreads them, making room. He can’t decide where to look. The way Cas’s hole twitches and pulses around him has Dean’s cock weeping, begging for some of that tight, wet action. Cas is fully hard now, his own cock leaking against his stomach, but his face…when Dean looks up to check, Cas’s head is tilted back, his eyes shut, mouth open, face screwed up with pleasure. It’s enough to make Dean fumble with a third finger, barely coherent enough to narrate it, and Cas groans in appreciation, hips rocking back into it as Dean finally finds his prostate. The guttural sound it punches from Cas’s lips, the way Cas’s eyes flare open, burning so hot Dean thinks he might combust, all give Dean about two seconds warning before he’s being flipped, his fingers pulled from Cas’s ass as he finds himself suddenly pinned hard against the mattress. There’s a flash across Cas’s face, like he surprised himself as much as Dean, and his grip slackens for a moment as he asks, “Is this okay?”

“Oh god,” is what Dean very intelligently says.

Cas must understand, because the intensity comes back, replacing all signs of concern as he straddles Dean more properly and drops more weight on him, a hand in the center of his chest, just below his throat, pinning Dean in place. “I asked you a question,” he says, all thunder. He digs in his fingers a little, punctuating each word. “Is. This. Okay?”

“So okay,” Dean babbles. “Fuck, Cas, please.”

“Good boy.”

The pressure on his chest lets up, and Dean has to seize the base of his cock, squeezing hard, because this is pretty much the hottest thing he’s ever seen – he tries not to think about Cas, ten or so years ago, pinning Dean to a wall with righteous fury, and the way Dean’s cock had responded, the way he had _definitely not thought about it_ as he’d frantically jacked off in the bathroom for days afterwards – and Dean feels seconds away from coming without even getting inside Cas. For his part, Cas snags another condom, tearing it from the strip and ripping it open with his teeth, and Dean has no idea where he learned that but it’s so fucking hot. Then Cas’s hands are squeezing, gripping him, and Dean has to screw his eyes shut and whimper as Cas turns rolling the condom over him into one of the filthiest handjobs he’s ever received. “ _Please_ ,” he says again, and it’s a prayer, it’s a plea, he’s begging and he doesn’t even care because Cas will take care of him, Dean knows he will, and he just _needs_.

“So beautiful.” Cas’s voice is full of awe, not undercutting the power but amplifying it. “Do you want to come inside me, Dean? Do you want to fuck me until you come?”

Dean stutters out the yes, because Cas is still fucking stroking him, still kneading at his cock, swiping his thumb over the head and rubbing roughly underneath it. Cas rumbles approvingly, bracing himself on Dean’s chest as he shifts forward, angling Dean back against him. The head catches, and so does Dean’s breath.

“Eyes open,” Cas commands, and Dean obeys instantly, mouth agape, staring up at Cas. Cas stretches his hand out to rub his thumb over Dean’s lower lip, not letting him suck, but pressing hard enough to keep Dean’s lips parted. “Can you watch this part, Dean? Watch how I take you inside me, swallow you up until I’ve taken every last inch for myself?”

“I-I…”

“Would that be too much for you?” Cas rocks his hips back, presses the head of Dean’s cock more firmly against his hole, circling it in a tease. “I need you to tell me, Dean.”

“No,” Dean breathes, even though he’s not sure. “Want…want to watch. Want to be good.”

“For me?”

“For you.”

“You want to be my good boy?”

“ _Yes._ ” It’s never been this easy. Cas makes it easy. Dean swallows hard. “Can you…”

Cas quirks an eyebrow, head cocked. “Can I what, Dean? If you want something, you have to ask.”

“Want you,” Dean says without thinking. He shakes his head. “I mean. Can you…I want…” He feels like he can’t suck in enough air, his breathing shallow and loud in his ears. “Fuck yourself on me,” he says, almost too fast. “Please?”

Cas’s smile is predatory. “You want me to use you? Your cock, your orgasm, all for my pleasure?”

“ _Yeah_.”

“I can do that.” Cas rocks his hips again, and there’s _pressure,_ awesome pressure, but it’s not quite there, and Dean whines low and needy in his throat.

“Cas,” he manages, and Cas pauses. Dean’s hands feel too unwieldy to do anything other than grip at the bedsheets, but even with shaking fingers he manages to reach for Cas, to grip his bicep, trying to convey everything he needs in that one touch.

Cas softens, just a little, his smile evening out into something sweeter. “I have you, Dean,” he promises. “Now watch for me, please.”

Dean doesn’t need to respond, still clutching Cas’s arm as his eyes drop to where he’s pressed against Cas, and Cas shifts just a little, and then the pressure increases, and then _oh._ Dean sobs as the head pops in, so tight he thinks he’s going to cry for real, so much better than it had been on his fingers. Cas is wet and he’s warm, and he holds just the head of Dean inside him, rolling his hips like he’s savoring that feeling. His head is tipped back, a guttural sound welling up, and Dean lets his eyes flick up just for a moment, taking in the scarring on Cas’s throat and the beautiful expression on his face before Cas is sliding down a little more and Dean has to look, has to be a good boy for Cas. He feels like he’s going to pass out; Cas is so _tight_ , he feels so good, and even after the prep squeezing Dean into him takes effort. Cas lets gravity do most of the work, but it’s still rough. Dean’s not huge, but he’s proportional, and he pants and keens as he watches himself sink deeper and deeper into Cas, those tight walls clenching and giving way for his cock. Cas’s thighs are actually trembling, a human weakness, but he’s still in control, and Dean doesn’t even try to buck up into him, to take more, because this is all he is in this moment. Just a cock for Cas. Not a toy, because he knows he means more than that. But a vessel for Cas’s pleasure.

“ _Ohh,_ ” Cas groans when Dean bottoms out. His breath shakes, and his hands flex where they’re braced against Dean. “Such a good boy for me. So good inside me.” He turns those too-blue eyes on Dean; his gaze is electric. “Tell me how it feels.”

“Tight,” Dean breathes. “So…so good, Cas, you feel…”

Cas circles his hips, just a little. He groans again. “When I fuck you, I want to tie you down.”

“ _Cas_.”

“You’d be trying to fuck yourself on me, but I wouldn’t let you. I’d make you take whatever I gave you.” He grunts, grinds Dean deep inside him, and Dean whimpers. “Then you’d know how I feel right now. How full, split open. How good it feels to have all of you inside me.”

Dean’s going to die. He’s going to fucking die. He’s got to be leaving bruises on Cas’s arm but he can’t make himself let go. “Cas, please.”

“You make me so happy,” Cas whispers. His gaze doesn’t waver from Dean’s. “I love you so much.”

“Love…love you, Cas,” Dean echoes. He doesn’t have the power to do anything else. “So happy.”

Cas slides his thumb over Dean’s lips again, and the shift in angle rocks Dean inside him. “I’m going to make you come, now. Would you like that?”

Dean nods, kisses and sucks at Cas’s finger, pleads with his eyes. Cas smiles.

Then he _moves_ , and Dean is gone. He flings both hands to the bed just to hang on, because Cas is newer at this than Dean is and yet. _And yet_. He starts slow, getting a feel for it, getting himself into a rhythm he likes, and Dean moans and turns his head, biting into the pillow because he can’t, he _can’t-_

Fingers grip his jaw, turning him back. “Look at me,” Cas instructs, and so Dean has to, has to stare at him, angelic grace and beauty as he rides Dean’s cock like a fucking champ, fucking himself up and down on Dean’s length, clenching around him. Dean’s not going to last long, he knows it, not with how good it feels, not with Cas _staring_ at him like that, like he’s never seen anything more beautiful than Dean in all his centuries of living. Like there’s never been a moment better than this one.

Dean fumbles his hand down between them, and Cas gasps, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment as Dean pumps him, trying for in time with Cas’s rhythm and probably missing the mark but it doesn’t _matter_ , because Cas just bounces on him harder, slams himself down against Dean, shifting until Dean’s cock hits his prostate against and then pounding into it every time, and Dean strips Cas’s cock frantically, his entire world narrowed down to this, to Cas’s pleasure and the thick throb of him in Dean’s hands, the slick heat of him and the way he feels like a vise around Dean’s cock, wrenching him higher and higher into oblivion. He squeezes Cas’s balls experimentally, and Cas sobs and comes a second time, his ass clamping down hard around Dean’s cock as he paints his chest white, and Dean sees black and _comes_ , filling up the condom like a goddamn firehose while Cas keeps grinding, milking him through it.

When he comes down from it, Cas is still on top of him, swaying a little and blinking unevenly as he stares down at the mess between them. Dean’s cock is softening in his ass, and they both wince a little as a shift has Dean slipping out. Dean grips the base of the condom on instinct, removing it and tying it off before he chucks it in the direction of the trash can. Cas’s thighs have got to be aching, but he doesn’t move, apparently frozen apart from the hand that reaches out to hover, like he wants to do more of the rubbing-his-cum-into-Dean thing he did earlier with Dean’s cheek.

“Hey,” Dean says softly, touching Cas’s arm, and oh yeah, there’s going to be a bruise there later. “You still with me?”

“That was…” Cas doesn’t finish the sentence, still unmoving.

Dean sits up, and that if nothing else gets Cas to move back a little to accommodate, gaze snapping up to Dean’s. “It was good, right?” Dean asks carefully. It’s really not an exaggeration to say that that was the best sex of his life, but if Cas didn’t like it-

“Good,” Cas repeats. He shakes himself a little, and then looks around. “We made a mess.”

“Yeah, we did,” Dean grins. When Cas doesn’t look at him, still looking around like he’s trying to find something to clean them with, Dean squeezes his arm again and says, “Hey. Look at me.”

Cas does, and Dean kisses him, and that finally makes Cas relax, melting into a puddle as Dean loops an arm around his waist. It’s not a heated kiss, but it’s soft and passionate and Cas lets Dean lick into his mouth a little before he breaks it to rest his forehead against Cas’s. “So that’s what sex is like when you ask for what you want, huh?”

“The…results do appear to be favorable.”

“Good memory, then?”

“Very good,” Cas agrees. He’s still a little out of it. It’s honestly kind of adorable, especially when he starts to smile and blush. “It was…good for you?”

“It was _awesome_.” Dean cards his fingers through Cas’s hair. It’s messy now, sticking up in every direction just like it used to. “And, uh. Just to say it again, not during sex…I love you.”

“I love you too.” Cas’s eyelids flutter to half-mast, and Dean chuckles, nudging him.

“Hey,” he says. “I don’t care how good the sex is, you’re not sticking me with cleanup.”

“Hmm?”

Dean pushes him gently off his lap, groaning as he clambers out of bed, grabbing for the first piece of fabric he finds and wetting it in the sink. He cleans himself off and chucks it at Cas. It hits him with a wet thwap, and Cas squints disapprovingly at Dean, who blushes and rubs the back of his neck.

While Cas cleans himself up, Dean gathers up their clothes and makes sure they make it into the hamper where they belong, then grabs the spare set of sheets. Cas is coherent enough to help him change them, but then promptly collapses back into the middle of the mattress the second they’re done. Dean laughs and nudges him over until there’s room for two. The bunker’s beds clearly weren’t built for it – much less for two grown men of Dean and Cas’s size – but that just means cuddling, and Dean’s a sucker for the afterglow. He kisses Cas’s forehead, smiling as Cas grumbles, shuffling himself until he can tuck his face into the crook of Dean’s neck. “Definitely some benefits to being human, huh?” Dean teases him, and Cas lifts his head, squinting up at Dean.

“Yes,” he answers simply, and Dean swallows, because with eyes like that there’s no way Cas is talking about the sex.

He clears his throat. “Speaking of memories…what I saw. In the Empty-“

“ _Later,_ ” Cas grumbles, already sounding half asleep.

“You’ll tell me about them?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“ _Goodnight, Dean._ ”

Dean takes that as an affirmative answer, grinning as Cas squirms and settles more firmly against him. “’Night, Cas.” Dean stretches over to switch off the light, and then wraps an arm around Cas’s waist, letting his eyes fall shut. He wonders if it should feel weird, having this. It doesn’t, really. It just feels right. Falling asleep comes easily to him, and although he doesn’t remember his dreams, they’re definitely good ones.

***

Waking up next to Cas is _definitely_ awesome. He wasn’t kidding about not being a morning person, but that just means he’s especially touchy-feely in the morning, clinging to Dean like an octopus, gripping tighter if Dean so much as shifts a little in his grasp. It makes getting up to hit the head a bitch, especially if Dean’s the little spoon, but that’s a sacrifice Dean’s willing to make. Cas is basically useless before coffee, in a way that shouldn’t be so adorable: completely rumpled, with messy stubble and glaring at anyone within his line of sight, gripping the mug to his chest like he’s convinced someone is going to take it from him. By the time he’s got at least a cup in him, sometimes two, he’s conscious enough to shave and dress and have an intelligent conversation, but Dean still loves him in those early hours. Dean’s no fan of waking up himself, but once he’s up, he’s up, and that means he gets to watch Cas become human all over again. Dean feels a little bad about the hickey and the bruise on Cas’s arm: both are placed just high and low enough respectively that a t-shirt really doesn’t cover them, and while Dean kind of likes to look – and Cas seems to share the opinion, judging by the number of love bites Dean starts to sport over the next few days – he figures he should probably get Cas into a flannel so, at the very least, Jack doesn’t start asking questions.

Even once his usual getup is washed, Cas seems pretty content to just leave it stashed in Dean’s dresser. He’ll wear the button-down, usually with Dean’s jeans, but mostly he borrows sweats and t-shirts and flannels. If Dean is putting off clothes shopping, that’s just because seeing Cas in his clothes does things to him, sexy and otherwise, and he really doesn’t think anyone should blame him for that. The trenchcoat Cas keeps, though, hung up lovingly and donned whenever Cas leaves the bunker. Dean gets it. You wear something for twelve years, you might get a little attached. It’s a reminder that, for all Cas is human now – the silver-white scar on his neck visible proof of it – he was an angel once. His other stuff stays in Dean’s room too, mixing in with Dean’s crap like it belongs there. Dean loves his Memory foam, but he’s definitely going to get a bigger mattress, if only because he’s way too old to be falling out of bed in the middle of the night (or in the middle of sex) because Cas decides to flip him and overshoots.

It’s weirdly domestic. Dean still gets calls on his hunter phones, fielding the FBI-type ones easily and passing the cases along to Garth and Jody while Sam and Eileen are out, but mostly he just cooks and compares job applications and watches Cas browse real estate websites in the area. Miracle likes to spend the evenings getting in between Cas and Dean on the sofa when they turn on the TV, dropping her head into Cas’s lap and effectively preventing any making out, but Dean can’t blame her for liking Cas so much. He knows the feeling. Once he’s up, Cas will take her for runs, and when they get back Dean will feed her, and then she spends most of the day chasing after Jack. Dean wonders occasionally if he should be worried about the kid with a pet, especially after the snake incident, but Jack’s got his soul again, so Dean figures it’s probably fine. For the kid’s part, he alternates between hanging around the bunker with them and venturing out, sometimes into town and sometimes a little farther. Dean’s pretty sure he’s been back to heaven at least once, to talk to him mom, but he doesn’t ask and Jack doesn’t offer any information on it.

A couple days after Cas is up and about, Claire turns up, barging in like she owns the place and socking Dean on the arm for letting Cas die in the first place. She’s got Kaia in tow, and her girlfriend mostly spends her time alternating between making awkward small talk with Dean and giving Jack careful, suspicious looks while Claire appraises Cas in his new form. “It’s weird,” she says eventually. “You’re human now, so you should probably look more like him, but you actually look way less like my dad now.” The way she hugged Cas when she first came in, though, tells Dean that while Cas may not be her father, she’s far from indifferent to him. “I’m really glad you’re okay,” she says, and then gets into a losing battle with Dean over drinking his beer.

After Claire and Kaia come Jody and the rest of the girls; considering their respective takes on the supernatural, Dean’s a little surprised to see Patience and Alex in the mix, but they’re there, hanging back behind Jody when she hugs Dean, teasing about how it’s about time she showed up at his house unannounced for a change. They warm up more as they get a look about the place, and by the time Donna shows up with takeout Dean’s got five kids roughhousing for the Chinese food. Nephilim or not, it’s kind of hysterical how Claire full-body-checks Jack away from the egg rolls.

Dean doesn’t miss the smacking kiss Donna lays on Jody’s cheek, or the way Jody blushes, and yeah he knew they were close but this is honestly a new one for him. Jody blushes harder and shoots him a mom look from across the room when she see him grinning at her, and Dean just grins wider and drags Cas in by the back of his shirt, letting his arm drape over his shoulder and winking at Jody while Cas gives him a vaguely exasperated look, although he pointedly doesn’t move away. Jody’s expression of surprise is brief, followed immediately by something Dean recognizes as ‘huh. Go figure,’ before Claire chucks chopsticks at him and tells them to get a room, as if she isn’t sitting so close to Kaia they’re practically sharing a chair. In retaliation, Dean makes a show of kissing Cas, PG-13 and playful, and laughs when he gets pelted with straw wrappers for his trouble. He ends up sitting next to Donna, who alternates between gushing over Cas, gushing over Jody and the girls, and chatting with him about job applications and coming out later in life and just generally shooting the shit while Cas nods along very seriously and answers Alex’s slightly inappropriate questions about being an angel and taking over Claire’s dad’s body in a way that’s mostly tactful but also – because it’s Cas – kind of not. Dean snorts into his beer, and Miracle winds her way around under the table, begging for scraps. Garth has sent Dean more than one text saying that, now that they’re done with all the apocalyptic crap, he should definitely swing by so Cas can meet his namesake. Dean’s already planning a trip to Wisconsin; he kind of wants to see Cas in the snow.

Sam and Eileen actually look surprised when they get in. The food’s cleaned up, but they’ve still got a fuckton of people in the house, considering it’s usually four, tops, at any given time. The girls have shoved all the tables in the library off to the side; they’re hardly what Dean would consider the sleepover crowd, but they’ve got some old Monopoly board spread out on the floor and an impressive amount of trash talk going on. Donna’s helping Cas clean things up so Miracle doesn’t get into the leftovers, and Jody’s fielding a work call – her real job, Dean thinks, because he hasn’t heard the words ‘ghost,’ ‘vampire,’ or any other shit like that pass her lips. Sam’s first step is to hug Jody and wave a hand towards the kids when Jack looks up and beams at him, and his second step is to double up on Claire’s course of action, shoving Dean gently for not letting him know about Cas as soon as he was awake. “We were busy!” Dean protests, which isn’t a lie, and grins when Sam makes a face and announces that he doesn’t want to know. He hugs Cas tight when the ex-angel steps back into the room, pausing just long enough to give Donna one too before he turns back to Cas. Dean can’t hear what they’re saying from across the room, but he sees Sam check Cas’s wound, then squeeze his shoulder. Eileen gives Dean a shit eating grin when she catches him watching, raising her eyebrows pointedly.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, without any heat whatsoever. “Like you and Sam didn’t get all gooey when he got you back.”

She doesn’t stop grinning, and Dean squirms. She takes pity on him, and her expression softens into a more natural smile. “You told him, right?”

Dean rubs the back of his neck, and then drops his hand to sign with his words. “Yeah, I did. Told him I loved him.”

“And…?” It’s clearly leading, and she clearly knows the answer. That’s alright. Dean doesn’t mind saying it.

“He loves me too.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“Yeah.” Dean surveys the room, his friends and family pretty much all under one roof. “Me too.”

Cas and Sam return, and Dean pulls Cas close, tucking him into Dean’s side. Cas leans into him with ease, and Dean doesn’t know what he ever did without that weight. He presses a brief kiss to Cas’s temple, just because he can, and for once, Sam’s expression isn’t teasing, and he wraps an arm around Eileen’s shoulders as they walk away, heading over to chat with Jody while a series of shouts rise up from the library over Miracle trying to walk on the game board.

It’s not the kind of life Dean ever pictured for himself, not really. Not even on his best days did he think he could ever have something like this. It doesn’t matter which application he turns in, if he goes to work for the auto shop, or a local diner, or gets the permits in order to build his own roadhouse someday, still tied to the life but not in it. It doesn’t matter, because these people in front of him? They’ve got this. Dean doesn’t have to carry it anymore.

Eventually, Dean knows, he’ll have to make some real decisions for the future. Something more solid than ‘Cas and a house and some bees.’ He’ll have to decide what he wants to do with himself, a career. How to fit in visits to his hunting family. How to be normal and handle having an ex-God for a kid. He’ll have to get Cas a social security number, probably, and work out how they can translate eons of knowledge and experience into something Cas can use. There are lots of big questions, but they’re the good kind of big questions. Not life-or-death, universe-ending. Just life. Just living. Dean doesn’t need to decide the fate of the world. He just needs to decide what to do next.

He looks at Cas, and when he speaks, it’s too quiet for anyone else in the loud room to hear. But Dean’s right next to Cas’s ear, and Cas hears it just fine. “I’m thinking beach vacation. Toes in the sand. What do you say?”

Cas smiles. “I’d like that.”

“Yeah?”

He nods, looking perfectly, blissfully happy. “Absolutely.”


End file.
